Loving Brooklyn
by Raven's Wing
Summary: You can love something like Brooklyn, but it will never love you back. The same could be said for Spot Conlon. Because much like the city from which he hails – he doesn’t feel. At least he doesn’t anymore.
1. Unanswered

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

**A/N**: A slightly different takes on the whole "Spot-the-womanizer" views. This will most likely only have two or three chapters, but it is a fun concept. Enjoy. I will be getting to updating **Frostbitten **soon. Gosh I suck.

**Warning**: PG-13 (implied adult situations/sexuality)

**Chapter 1**: Unanswered

* * *

Spot thinks I am asleep. I know he does. If he didn't he would have stayed in my bed. He only leaves once I'm sleeping, but he always leaves. I shiver against the cold that touches my naked flesh. As quietly as I can, I reach down and pull a cover over my frigid body and hope he won't hear me.

I don't think it did.

He stands at my window now just watching the empty streets. A loud sigh comes from him. I watch him carefully. Already he has donned his trousers, but his shirt is still on the floor. I don't even remember when he took it off or when my clothes became crumpled heaps. I never remember these things. Always I am so lost in him. His smell, his feel, his taste, I drown willingly in everything that he is. Why do I allow this time and time again?

The moonlight sends its silvery glow into my room and cold light across his back defined with muscles he hides beneath ill-fitted clothes. How tall he stands, and proud, like a soldier. One hand griped his other wrist behind his back, his head held tall and proud, and his feet hip width apart. It looks like he could be surveying a mass of troops before battle. Perhaps in a way he is a soldier trained to live in the streets.

He would be the perfect soldier. Only one so devoid of emotion or guilt could be such soldier as good as he. There is no shame in him or mercy. He takes what he wants and for some reason, you give it to him. Perhaps out of fear for what would happen if you don't, but there is also something in you that yearned to give it to him. In a way I pity him, but he doesn't want pity though. So I give him what he wants – though I can't say I'm better for it.

There is another sigh, and his head bows almost like he is praying. Maybe he isn't so unfeeling. No one without feelings would sigh. He looks almost like the marble statues I've heard of in Europe. His muscles are as hard as the stone he was carved from. Surely he has a heart of stone to match.

"I know yous awake." He said.

His speech cut into the silence like a knife. His voice is so cold and empty that I felt it chill me even more than the cool air of the room. It is eerie to hear his speak without seeing his mouth move. In fact nothing in his body moved. Perhaps he hadn't spoken at all.

"How long?" I asked.

I was not sure what exactly to say since I wasn't even sure if he'd spoken. We've also never spoken directly after a rendezvous like this.

"Awhile," he said.

He doesn't bother to elaborate or turn around to look at me. He doesn't bother to move from his place at the window. He speaks like I am now just an inconvenience.

"Oh," I reply.

It is an asinine attempt to fill the silence with my own voice, but he doesn't respond. He simply raises his head once more and stares out into the night. Lord knows what he was thinking of, or maybe even He doesn't. I would sell my soul to know those thoughts of his.

Silence. It was such a silence that you can feel it creep inside of you and make your heart feel too loud. It was silences like these in which I wonder why I let him do this to me time and time again. Then I saw of him in the eerie light from the moon; each muscle and sinew shadowed and highlighted for a remarkable effect. My throat tightened at the memory of how those muscles felt under my finger tips and how his lips felt against my collarbone. Longing bubbles up in my stomach. I want him again, but know that is impossible. He never gives two favors in one night.

He picked up his rumpled shirt. The customary red suspenders hang down around his legs. I remember pushing those down his arms more than once. His eyes never wandered towards me as he dressed himself. This is typical. Never once does he bother to really look at me. Even in our moments of passion he never once has looked me in the eyes during his bliss. Though I admit it has never stopped me from feeling as if I was the only person alive to him in the world. Right now, however, it bothers me.

Perhaps it is too personal, like staying with me in my bed and sleeping for the night. Staying in my bed would be too intimate - too personal. It would mean he would actually have to care, or belong to someone. Caring and belonging was something lost on the great Spot Conlon. They bled out of him before he came to me and used me like a common street whore. I was nothing more than someone who could scratch an itch and do it willingly, and silently. Silent until tonight

The realization that I was nothing more than convenient hurt even though I had it long ago. I watched him shrug his shirt over his broad shoulders, each of his muscles rolled under the thin fabric as he buttoned up the front. His dark head stayed upright. He didn't even bother to watch his own hands slide the cheap glass through the frayed holes. He was more of a machine than a human. Emotion was drilled out of him from the hard nights spent in the street. Lord only knows what he saw on those streets where he shivered in the cold and sweated in the heat.

Growing up I wasn't rich but I knew I wasn't poor. I had always had a roof put over my head, warm clothes on my back, food in my mouth, and as much education as a girl was allowed. My papa had always made sure of that, and I was thankful. I wondered if Spot even knew who his father was. Had he ever had a home with a family? There is so much that I didn't know about him and so much I will never know about him.

It was not a surprise to me why he was so cold and hard, but it didn't keep me from wanting to change it. I wanted to help him, to reach out and have him trust me enough to confide in me, but I knew he never would. Trusting was something of which he was no capable.

I wonder why?

"You're leaving?" He headed to the door. "Won't you say?" I practically beg holding the crumpled sheets to my breasts.

"Not tonight," his answer is simple, but he is not.

All of his answers are condensed, elementary, and to the point. I wonder if anyone had ever carried on a real conversation with him. I wonder if I ever will.

"Why?" I ask while I still have his attention, praying that he will look my way, but he doesn't.

"There are things to do," Another answer spoken in as few words as possible, with as few personal connotations as possible.

"At this time of night?" I'm baiting him and he knows it. I don't hide that I'm practically desperate for him to stay now.

"Yeah." Was his one word reply. His answered seem to grow shorter every time he speaks.

I am at a loss only for a moment, but a woman holds a great intuition. It can tell her when her child is in danger or when her flux is about to start. It can detect emotions if it pleases and directs one in the ways of feminine flirtation. It is that sort of intuition which whispered to me and told me that Spot was marked by another woman. I ignored it before now. I didn't want to know. Now my mind wrapped around the concept and hurried on with it before any real thought comes.

"May I ask you a question?" The intuitive whisper made the words come before a thought had formed entirely.

"Yous already done that." He said. The quip is quiet, to himself, but he didn't leave. Does he sense what is coming?

"Who is she?" I asked a question that would be cryptic if he could not fill in the blank. He doesn't look at me, but he does stay still. Is it vanity or stalling?

"Who's who?"

"The girl you who has spoiled you for the rest." I said. The clarification came before I had time to think through all of the ramifications of the statement.

Feminine instinct or not – I'd learned that Spot was no one to upset, and when the words slipped from my mouth I regretted them. His eyes shot to mine. A storm brewed on his chiseled features. The hurt is was short, but very sharp and real.

He turned jerkily and walked out the door.

He didn't give me any words, but he had given me an answer in his silence. For in all of my time around men I have learned a few things. One of which is that no one can be so callused without having a reason to be so, no one can be so hard without having been hardened, and no one can hurt someone else unless they too had been hurt.

I sat in the darkness with my shame, but I could not help but wonder who was the woman that had hurt him badly enough to make him the way he was. Who was the woman who had been able to tap past the rough exterior into something deeper? What kind of woman could have been loved by such a man and then leave such a deep scar?

These were the questions that weren't answered by his silence, but ones that I intended to have answered if it kills me.

And knowing Spot Conlon, it very well could.

* * *

**A/N**: Well, it is a little different and I like it. It is a different take on Spot than I have written before, but is it worth continuing? Feedback more than welcome, constructive criticism craved!


	2. Searching

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Spot Conlon, "Newsies", or anything having to deal with the genius or mastery surrounding its works. Disney holds all claims to the character of Spot Conlon and to any references to other characters portrayed in the motion picture "Newsies." I do not. I intend no harm, hold no claims, mean no infringement, and I am not making any money off of this in anyway. I do, however, own the plot, and the original characters portrayed throughout this tale. What's mine is mine, what's Disney's is Disney's.

**A/N**: Well, I am not sure where I am going with this story, I can only hope I don't dig myself into a plot hole. Please let the muses be kind to me. These chapters will not be my normal twenty page epics, but shorter, sweeter vignettes if you will. As you can all tell, this is told from the point of view of one of Spot's girls just like it was in the previous chapter. Enjoy.

**Warning**: PG (mild language/sexuality)

**Chapter 2**: Searching

* * *

I did not sleep anymore that night. How could I? My blood still hummed from the divine encounters with one of the immortal walking among us. If I found that Spot Conlon was a god or some other celestial being I would not hesitate to believe them. He was all together lovely. His form was exquisite, his voice held the power of thunder coated with silk, and his prowess spoke of all that is ethereal. His ways of lovemaking could deceive you into believing that he has all of the secrets of eternity at his disposal, and perhaps he did.

The first sparkling rays of sunlight filtered into my room, I sat up. Shoving back the hair which skilled hands had disheveled – I held the rumpled sheet over my breasts like I had the night before even though there was no one for which to be modest. My clothes were strewn about in such a fashion I struggled to remember exactly what had happened last night, but it was all a blur of fire and pleasure. Eliciting a small moan at how little I remembered I reached for the crumpled chemise and dressed slowly.

My nightlong reverie had come to several conclusions as well as several inquiries. One conclusion was that there was no possible way that Spot Conlon would answer my questions. After his reaction last night I knew that it would be better just to let things be and not pursue anything, but I could not be satisfied with that. I wouldn't ask Spot anything, however perhaps I could find someone else who would be willing to answer me. That is if anyone knew the answers. If Spot Conlon was as secretive with his street companions as he was with me the possibility of others knowing anything was slim to none. The least I could do was try. My first instinct was to search out a local newsboy and interrogate him. Perhaps I would bribe him. Though simple sounding in my mind it was soon to prove not only to be a bothersome task, but a near impossible one.

The streets, though filled with the cries of the newsies, were crowded and it was difficult to pick my way through the masses. Whenever I did find a boy they would thrust their paper at me and ask me to buy one. When they realized that I was not interested in buying one of their papers they would move along to the next potential customer. Most of them were too young to understand anything that might have happened with their fearless leader, and the older ones would hide their surprise behind a smirk and look at me knowingly. The suggestive way their eyes would travel my body was absolutely degrading, as I knew that they took me to be only one more of Spot's whores. I suppose that is what I am, but the exposure of my transgression wasn't welcome. Some of them would make lewd offers and obscene gestures that made my skin crawl. They had nothing of the charm that their leader did.

It never failed with the older boys, though, that whenever I asked if they would give me information towards the unknown girl their faces would blanch. Their eyes shot wide and their jaw went slack, and I knew that they must have been startled that I would ask such a question. Then they would recollect themselves and a coolly confident exterior would re-appear. Apparently this was some unspoken taboo that no one dared mention or bring up for fear of his life. I had seen the work of Spot's cane and fists, and I feared them as much at his boys did. Perhaps my fear of them kept me at his disposal. I doubted that he would hit a woman, but there was much I didn't know about this him. There was much that would have been better unknown, and this mystery woman might be one of those things.

Finally, near lunchtime, my feet ached and my stomach rumbled. It had been six hours and I was no closer to my goal that I had been when I started my venture. Wondering the streets of New York was not my prime ideal of how to spend my Saturday morning. I wasn't even rewarded with the information I wanted. An odd dozen of lads of all ages had been questioned. Once they had regained their composure the majority had laughed at me, some had sworn at me, and others had simply stared blankly after they calculated the situation. All of them had tried to sell me a paper.

Sitting on a bench on the sidewalk I relaxed my throbbing feet as I tried to bring some clarity to my thoughts. Obviously my plan of attack wasn't the most effect and I needed to reevaluate. Who else could I possibly ask? Certainly there were more newsies in Brooklyn, most definitely New York, who would be willing to share the story. Someone who would shed some light on the enigma with which I was infatuated, and yes, infatuated is the right term. I would classify what Spot and I have as love or as an affair but more as a mutual necessity. I need him and he needs his release. Closing my eyes I breathed deeply of the city air. The aroma filled with humanity, sweat and blood, horses and smoke, food and sewage. It was the essence of New York, part of its lifeblood, and since I was part of New York it was part of me.

It was part of Spot.

So lost in my thoughts I was startled by the rough voice of a girl.

"Hey lady," the voice roused me with a jolt. "Yous okay?" Her voice, though concerned, was distant as I opened my eyes to see a girl around the age of sixteen holding a small stack of papers in the crook of her arm. Her disheveled appearance and lack of hygiene was grossly apparent as her dirty, ill-fitting trousers and moth eaten shirt both were about three sizes too small. The long brown hair on her head was thick and braided back coarsely from her smudged face. It looked as though she had already been in a brawl that day. The suspenders on her shoulders were a bleak gray which matched the tattered cap which sat crookedly on her head.

"Excuse me?" I asked in surprise. Why would someone with such a ragtag appearance be so concerned with a stranger?

"Are yous okay?" she repeated as she shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Looking down at me along her upturned nose – she appeared slightly aloof even though my social position was higher than her own.

"Yes, thank you." I replied while standing. I was shorter than she was by nearly five inches. Her gangly appearance was hard a lean as a boys as she must have had to fight to hold her position with the rowdy, ruthless Brooklyn crowd.

"Buy a pape?" she held out the paper in my direction and it was suddenly so clear to me.

Attempted caring was all part of her ploy to sell the merchandise. She wasn't stupid, but I had been. I should have known better than to trust the kindness. Then it struck me: a female newsie, possibly old enough to remember an occurrence with one Spot Conlon, was standing in front of me with possibly enough humanity to offer a few answers. This was my chance!

"Certainly." I dug into my small coin purse as I spoke. Was it one penny to buy a paper? I couldn't remember and my gloved hands were having difficulty grasping the slim pieces of change. "You wouldn't happen to know Spot Conlon would you?" I asked after I finally had apprehended the coin and placed the said penny in her ink stained palm. She laughed as she handed me my paper.

"Doll, everybody knows Spot Conlon." She shook her head as she tipped her hat at me. Then turned on her heel to leave but I reached out and grabbed one ratty sleeve in my gloved hand. Suddenly I felt very out of place as she turned and looked at me questioningly - disapprovingly. It was like _I _was too dirty to touch _her_ instead of the other way around.

"Then maybe you could assist me?" I inquired and she said nothing, but she didn't walk way or pull her arm from my grasp. A positive sign? "Perhaps if I buy you lunch you could answer a few questions for me?" I proposed and at the mention of free food the girl's dark, shifting eyes lit up. There was something about those eyes that reminded me so much of Spot; so hard with an innocence lost, always shifting, never trusting, always looking for something they lost long ago.

"What kinda questions?" Her dark eyes narrowed suspiciously, but I could tell she was interested.

"Some things about Spot," I explained and her expression went to that of ironic surprise to mocking disbelief.

"What's a hoidy-toidy thing like yous doing getting yaself involved with somebody like Spot Conlon?" she scoffed and I felt my cheeks burn.

The simple implication was shocking and I felt as if everyone on the entire block had heard the fowl words. It was the way she had said 'involved', like I was a cheap nothing, and perhaps I was. In fact I knew I was. Hearing the words from someone else, instead of knowing them in my head, made it feel much different though. It made it real.

"Please," I dropped my tone in hopes she would follow suit. "Would you join me for a meal?" I pleaded.

The shame and humiliation of begging someone from her station in life to dine with me was magnified by the fact that she was knew I was something of a whore. She was right by insinuating a connection between me and Spot and there was no use in protecting my long lost modesty. On this note the girl stepped back and surveyed me in a very degrading manner. Tucking her tongue into her cheek, she gazed at me up and down, the stare absolutely burning me as I writhed uncomfortably under her gaze. Her eyes so hard and penetrating – much like Spot's. There was much about this girl that reminded me of the leader from her features to her demeanor.

"All right." She nodded finally - shifting the papers from one arm to the other. "If ya paying," she let me know that she fully intended to get a free meal out of this agreement. I lead her to a diner that I knew of not too far from where we first met. It was a cheap but respectable establishment where I knew that she couldn't order anything that would break my bank.

Soon we had our food. Hers was one of those crude hot dogs with a sandwich as a side and mine a simple bowl of soup. Though I didn't blame her for taking advantage of the free meal – I still was shocking at her appetite. Though who knew when she had last had an opportunity like this? If I had the opportunity to purchase good food at someone else's expense if I was in her situation I most likely would have done the same thing. Bowing my head to say silently grace - I raised it to find her looking at me with a mocking mirth I found most infuriating. I said nothing. Perhaps she was thinking how ironic it was for a girl who subjected herself to her brother's more carnal side would have such manners. I may not be a woman of the strictest morals, but I did believe in the possible redemption of my transgressions. Perhaps God would grant me the strength I need to quit the nasty habit I've formed with Spot. Unfolding my napkin into my lap I cleared my throat and looked at the smirking girl.

"So what do ya wanna know?" The girl asked as she picked up her sandwich with hungry lust in her eyes. I wonder how long it has been since she's last eaten. "Wanna know where he sleeps when he's not with you? Who his mother is? Do you wanna know the tragic childhood of the sonofabitch?" She said with a profane flair that could almost be called poetic before she took a massive bite from her sandwich. Brushing down the feathers she ruffled by her patronizing and profanity I collected myself. Now I was prepared to launch the inquiry that I had held back for some time. So I did.

"What can you tell me about the girl that left Spot?" I dove in head first without even testing the waters. The heavy question coming out first and she nearly choked on the large bite of sandwich she had practically inhaled.

Lifting one ink stained hand to her mouth – her other hand darted for the glass of water as she fought valiantly to swallow the massive mouthful. Her face turned a crimson that I didn't find natural and worried that she would reach unconsciousness as she gagged rather rudely, but refused to give up the bite. A slight panic began to rise in my breast at the abnormal sound and I offered help but she waved me away. Self-sufficient to a fault – yes this girl had New York in her veins. Gulping down some water to help make the half chewed gorge palatable she finally managed to choke it down into her throat. Gasping for air, she took another large gulp before looking at me again with those striking eyes wide, and her mouth twisted in an amused expression

"What?" she spoke far too loudly for our environment.

I felt some of the other restaurant patrons staring at us and I felt the overwhelming desire to shrink in my chair and disappear, but I remained firm in my posture. I couldn't back down now even though I wanted to desperately.

"The girl who left Spot - who was she?" I took the first bite of my soup, trying to look casual and collected, but I knew I was failing miserably. Acting was not my strong suit.

The flood of expressions washed over the girl's face was very intriguing. First confusion, then disbelief, a flash of fear, and then the mocking smirk that I was becoming to accept as regular appeared as she leaned back in her chair. She rocked it back on two of its legs and chuckled. I was mortified. Any proper lady knew that her back was never to touch the back of the chair, and most certainly was not supposed to be rocked as one did in a swing.

"What makes you think there was one?" She turned the question back to me and I swallowed heavily.

There was a condescending flick of her eyebrow as she watched me squirm. I had become so accustom to the other rude responses on the street I did not expect her to engage in a game of questions. There was a glint of humor in her eyes, but also something much darker lurking just behind it. It was though she was daring me to continue and my heart could not decide if it should fall into my stomach or jump into my throat.

"Simple logic, really," I decided that honesty was the best policy. Especially since I was a terrible liar. "And judging from your reaction and the reaction of several others, there is someone as such." I quirked my own brow in imitation of her. It felt strange.

If she could look cool, confident, and amused while watching me the least I could do was return the favor. I watched as she tucked her tongue into her cheek. Folding her arms across her breast she set the front legs of the chair back onto the floor with an unceremonious crash. Grimacing at the sound I was even more offended as she leaned over the table as if to study me like some foreign creature before pulling back and smirking once more. The game she was playing wasn't one that I knew and it was making me most uncomfortable.

"Yous really got a fancy for that bastard don'tcha?" her profanity shocked me once more.

Swear words and slang were something I would have to accustom myself to if I were to speak with this girl. She chuckled when she knew I was flustered. I knew she thought me childish for my sheltered ears.

"Would you please answer my question?" My face felt warm.

I tried to re-route her back to the subject at hand or at least away from me and back to Spot. This anonymous girl eyed me knowingly. I felt that she knew so much about me somehow, and I nothing about her, but wanted to know more if it meant unlocking the mystery of the man who occasionally warmed my bed. I tried to press back the crimson flush I knew was present on my face as she continued to chuckle. She unnerved me almost as badly as Spot.

"Yous a smart one – smarter than most the girls that Conlon picks up." She took another bite of her sandwich, and then another before speaking again. Her mouth grossly full. "I'se not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing." I had accepted what she said as a compliment until she tagged on the additional phrase. She squinted her eyes and looked into space for a moment or two before taking another bite of her now half-gone sandwich. When she said no more I was forced to prompt her yet again.

"Would you please answer my question?" I persisted and she looked at me with a guilty innocence. She was still eating her sandwich as she gazed back at me as if she truly knew not of what I spoke. "My question – would you answer it please?" I rephrased in hopes that the words would process this second time.

"What question?" Her words were garbled as she crammed the last of the sandwich into her mouth. She had finished the large sandwich in less than eight bites. The girl was ravenous, but frustrating.

"There was a girl that left Spot and hurt him, was there not?" I rephrased it once more and she simply shrugged.

It was as though the topic was as boring as hanging a wall lamp. Instead of answering – she moved onto the hotdog without as much as a bat of an eye. I could feel my hackles on the back of my neck rising in irritation.

"Lotsa girls have left him, but he's had a lot of girls. Conlon's never been one for _limiting_ himself." It was clear that she picked her words carefully for maximum impact. Her emphases on the word 'limiting' painted a colorful picture of the Brooklyn leader's habits regarding women.

"Most of them left him when they found out that he wasn't only theirs." She shrugged again, not meeting my gaze. There was a bit of humor in the way she said that, but it I could tell she was deadly serious.

"Girls ain't good at sharing what they think is theirs." I could tell she was talking about me. Did she think that I was jealous that I wasn't the first or the only girl that Spot had loved? Was I?

"But there was one that he cared about, was there not?" I pressed and the girl looked at me with a perplexed scowl. Apparently I had not gotten a message that she had tried to send.

"Yous think too much ya know that?" Her sentence was like she was trying to shrug my question off as easily as she shrugged her shoulders. She took another bite from her hotdog and I pursed my lips.

"Answer my question, please." I tried to keep my temper in check as I had all but forgotten about the food in front of me. All I wanted was an answer and I felt that I was so close. What would she not just tell me?

"Yeah," she squinted her piercing eyes again - those eyes that seemed so familiar. "When I'se think about it - it seems like there was one that hurt him pretty bad." She opened her eyes wide and as the light caught them I saw the darkest shade of blue. They reflected like deep sparkling pools of water under the noon sky. "But she's gone and _no one_ talks about her any more." The way she spoke was as if she was warning me and I knew she was. "Especially around Conlon." She added while looking me dead in the eye.

Her eyes staring didn't have the mocking sarcasm or humor she'd held in them the rest of the conversation. The darkness that had been hiding during the whole discussion was now full frontal. It was clear that she wanted the subject to be dropped and that if I was smart I would. Then, as if to punctuate her statement, she took the final large bite from her hot dog and stuffed it into her mouth.

"Well, who was she?" I didn't pay attention to the warning.

Instead I tried to gain more information but the girl just looked at me with a scowl. Obviously this was more of a sign of stupidity than bravery. Taking what was left of her beverage she drank rapidly to help send the large gorge of her hotdog down her throat. Then she reached for her papers and stood.

"Wait, I'm not done!" I insisted and she looked at me mockingly.

"Look doll face, I'se got papes ta sell. It was nice of you and all to buy me lunch, but there aren't any answers that you want." She adjusted her papers under her arm to a more comfortable place in the crook of her arm. "Is'll give you a piece of advice though," she pulled her cap down on her head firmly. "When it comes to asking about Spot Conlon you'll cheese it if you know what's good for you." With that she turned on her heel and walked towards the exit.

"Wait!" I called after her as loudly as I dared in the restaurant. "How will I contact you?" I asked as I pushed back my chair and made moves to follow her so I wouldn't have to yell over the other restaurant patrons who were already giving me dirty looks.

At my question she turned around and walked backwards. Our eyes met and a practiced smirk slipped over her face. Developing a good smirk must be a prerequisite to being a newsie. The cool, aloof, collectedness of this creature was much like her leader. Gauging how much she reminded me of Spot – her answer shouldn't have surprised me, but it did.

"You don't." Was her simple reply before she spun back around and was gone. My cheeks flamed a bright red, be it from anger or embarrassment I wasn't sure, and I half considered charging after her. There was a bill to pay, though, soup to finish, and something told me that even if I did follow her I wouldn't get anything more conclusive than what she had already told me.

I had been right thinking that it would be difficult extracting any information about the mysterious exodus of Spot Conlon, but I had not dreamed it would be like this. Returning to my seat I thought back over the words the unruly street girl had given me. The threats were not cryptic, but everything else she had said had been. Retrieving information about Spot seemed more impossible by the moment.

I finished my meal deep in thought. The broth left a bad taste in my mouth, not for quality as much as the thoughts I shared with it. The few veiled answers the hauntingly familiar girl had given me polluted my bites. It appeared that the Brooklyn newsies were a tightly bound group. They were formed by honor and code, protecting each other by holding confidence and idolizing their leaders by upholding their reputations. Taint was not allowed.

If it was a shame to have a girl leave you then it would be unquestioningly erased from the respective leaders' past or excused that he had left her. They altered the headlines to make them sound better, and apparently that logic carried over into their lives as well. However, there was something more behind this headline. They had not just changed the title of the story – it seemed that they had changed the whole story, or maybe just erased it entirely.

The cryptic conversation with the strange girl had done nothing more than fuel my curiosity towards the whole situation. Her threats hung in the back of my mind, but the questions I still had rose to the top. I was on a mission of discovery, of necessity. I paid my tab and hers. It was reasonably priced, but for the amount of information I garnered it seemed expensive. As I progressed onto the swirling streets of Brooklyn I reminisced on the strangely familiar ways of the strange girl and her even stranger words. My jaw set firmly. There was a story to be found, and I was going to find it.

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**A/N**: Well, the next chapter will pick up and there will be Spot in it. [All of you: *squeals*] Also we will get to know our heroine's name! [ plays triumphant trumpet noises ] Anyway, gosh, well, I got a lot more response to this story that I ever could have imagined. It blew me away, thank you all so much! All I ask is if you are reading my story, is that you leave me a review simply saying that you are reading and if you like it or hate it. No elaboration is needed, but if you can take the time to read my story, you can take the time to leave a review because I sure as heck put effort into these things and would like a little credit. Anyway, here are a few notes for my all so lovely review board:

**OfNoConcern**: Well, while it could stand alone, easily, I did add that last paragraph and thought so that if I was so inspired I would continue the story. It turns out that I got a lot more reaction to this tale than I ever thought possible, so I am going to continue it. Hopefully I won't completely ruin it… Well, thank you for your kind review and your encouraging words. ^_^ Take care.

**Nerikla**: I happen to agree with you that there are far too many newsie stories out there that leave out way too much detail. The simply assume that the reader knows what they want them to, when in fact we don't. Eh, beta-readers. I really should look into that, shouldn't I? Sometimes I just get so carried away in the story I don't even proof read it before I post it for all of the excitement. That is the way it is with the majority of my stuff. Perhaps you would beta-read this story? Glad to know that you liked this so well you would consider reading more of my stuff. ^_^ Thank you so much.

**Lady Elwen**: Well, I continued it just for you and the six other reviewers! Ha, ha. Thanks to you, the world has more of this story. Or rather, because of you, I ruined the perfect one-shot! I guess this is sort of the 'everyone-is-the-victim-in-some-odd-way' story. Thanks for the review and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

**Paris**: I never would have guessed how many people enjoyed this portrayal of Spot, I personally love it and I am glad that you do too. I am eager as you all to see what my muses come up with in regards to this tale.

**Ireland O'Reily**: Yes, as opposed to popular believe, I didn't die. I am still alive and kicking, but my muses have been on strike. Explanation for all of my update delays on **Frostbitten **are in my bio on the update center. Eh, the fates have been against me entirely on that story since the very start, but I am going to finish it dang it! And **Blind Spot** if it absolutely kills me! Can you believe they have been in the works for nearly seven almost eight months? Dang… Well, I am glad that you can find enjoyment in this new piece as well as all of my others. You are such a faithful reader. :: glows :: I have a fan! THANK YOU!

**Storm**: Well, here is more for you. Though Spot didn't make an appearance in this chapter, he was the common drive and glue behind it all. I promise Spot in the next chapter, along with an interesting twist if I can work it out correctly. So I hope you enjoyed this chapter sans Spot, and continue to read and review.

**Morning Dew**: Well, well, well… so I have gotten a review from the legend of Newsies' fan-fiction, Morning Dew. :: faints :: Well, I always try to spin the same old story just slightly to keep it fresh and interesting, but that is what can make or break a story as I am sure you know. I'm glad that you liked this version of Spot and thanks for the compliment on the lines. That was one of my personal favorites in regards to one liners. You have good taste. Ha, ha. Thank you very much, I need to get back and read you **When Brooklyn Needed a Rosary**, but I have barely been able to update my own stories and you have already finished it! Eep! I'm sorry, but I promise nice long reviews when I have time!

Well, everyone, that is it. Thank you all for reviewing and as always, I crave constructive criticism and my muses crave praise and reviews in general. :: cough – hint – cough ::

"It's not that I want things to go wrong - it is just that I seem to set things up for failure."


	3. Problems

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

**A/N**: Hugs and kisses!

**Warning**: PG-13 (implied sexuality, adult situations, and language)

**Chapter 3**: Problems

* * *

The azure sky was bright with the afternoon sun as the morning edition had been sold and those that weren't selling the afternoon edition frolicked in their spare time. I was one of those who weren't selling the afternoon edition. The poker game last night had been kind to me, and to be perfectly honest I didn't want to sell. If it weren't for necessity I wouldn't ever sell again. The game didn't appeal to me like it had a year ago. Things had changed. I had changed. _She _had changed me. Bitterly I pushed those rebellious thoughts from my mind. I didn't need those thoughts just like I don't need her. After all – I have Brooklyn. That should be more than enough.

Rough splashing against the wooden supports came to my ears. I listened to the shouts and gales of the rejoicing boys while they reveled in the water on the warm day. My vantage was higher than the others were. Some were sprawled out on the rigging and crates that were strewn and abandoned on the warped, weathered wood. The docks were crowded that day as I sat and watched my boys. Most were swimming in the murky water. A few were around me conversing. Others were flirting terribly with the girls that came down here occasionally.

It's shameless, really, the way that the girls flirt with my boys. At one point I would have welcomed and encouraged it, but not now. No real lady would have been seen within fifty feet of these docks, much less on them, and touching the bare skin of my soaking boys. Some of them were, no doubt, whores. Others are newsgirls. A few were even smoking. Girls shouldn't smoke. It makes them smell bad.

"Hey Spot," one of my boys called to me from his languid pose on a crate.

His arm was carelessly thrown around one of the flirtatious girls. She was cute; wide dark eyes, honey colored hair, her nose was a little long, and her curves weren't fabulous, but she was still cute. My mental analysis was rapid, automatic, and repulsive. Some habits never die. I hated that I still mentally picked apart the female kind like that. At one point I wouldn't care if I did that. It had been a sport to me. That was before… I tore my thoughts away from that and brought it back to my boy.

"Yeah Fidget?" I responded after my mind shut down its inspection of his whore and other even less desirable paths.

"Ya see the new dame down at The Scrape?" he asked in reference to the bar that I frequented.

I could get all the alcohol I wanted because I had friends in that establishment. They knew I was good to pay and for the most part that is what is what they cared about. Granted most of them were female, and they all knew my reputation; some by experience and others only by hearsay. So of course I had seen the new girl. She called herself Pepper. Her small waist that bloomed into full hips that swayed seductively when she walked was enough to catch any man's attention.

"Yeah, I'se seen her." I smirked and looked into the distance over the murky waters that made up the river where my boys played.

Fidget chuckled under his breath and I know what he was thinking. He was thinking that I had already bedded the whore. In many ways that is what I want him to think - even though it isn't true. My habit isn't to take the whores and the streetwalkers – my mother was one of them. The women I take are all willing not because I give them money but because they want me. I'm not the arrogant bastard most think I am. At least in the respect that I have enough respect to let a woman decide to spread her legs for me without the coercion of money.

"Was she any good?" I hear a different voice cut into my reverie.

This time it is Marbles. Marbles was relatively new to the group and was a brown-nosing idiot. The youth had a dark haired girl hanging around his neck. Her lips moved against the bare wet skin of his shoulder in a seductive fashion even as she stared me right in the eye. I'd seen that girl before but I didn't know her. I knew I'd never slept with her and it appeared she wanted to remedy that. The sight repulsed me. I remembered a time when I would have allowed the same treatment, but I had changed since then.

"Better than yous'll ever know." I kept my responses cryptic, not wanting to participate in this small talk. It wasn't that I cared about lying. It was that I didn't care to talk about this with anyone. "I wouldn't wanna spoil your fun by telling ya about mine." I nodded my head in the direction of the dark hair girl who was now bestowing kisses along Marble's neck and jaw.

"That's probably cause you ain't had any fun in a long while, Conlon." A familiar condescending tone came from behind me. "When was the last time ya had a good, hard lay, Spotty?" You could hear the smirk in the feminine voice. Only one person would have the nerve to say that to me.

"Snaps," I spoke authoritatively, not bothering to turn around to look at her. "Don't ya have anything better to do then to cut into conversation?" I was irritated, not overly, but she knew I didn't appreciate her saying things like that in front of my boys. I was her leader just like I was theirs and I couldn't let her disrespect me in a way that would cause the boys to question my authority.

"I'se sold me papes, got a free meal, and paid me week at the lodging house." Snaps lazily dictated her list of accomplishments as she slid down beside me on my crate. Her lanky frame stretched nearly as long as mine. She was too tall for a girl. Two dark eyes glinted with a jaded merriment as she sat next to me in her relaxed, casual fashion. "I ain't got anything ta do." She smiled in a way that looked like a great big cat who had just feasted on cream.

"What do ya want Snaps?" I kept my tone and the conversation cool. I knew that even though the boys on the crates below weren't paying much attention to me now - they still could hear what we said.

"Do I always have to want something? Can't I'se just talk to ya?" Her tone was patronizing. She smirked as she brought one knee up to her chest and draped one arm over it languidly.

"You never just talk." I pointed out and she chucked under her breath. I had called her bluff. "Come with me." I ordered as I stood. I didn't want to be around all of the listening ears. If she wanted to talk we would do it in privacy.

Descending the crates down to the other side we picked our way along the fairly deserted potion of the pier. The way she moved was quick and spry as a cat - which was good considering that she wouldn't be able to stand in a brutal skirmish with any of the boys. Snaps was a scrappy fighter but she was a much faster runner and an even better strategist. If she were ever in a fight she knew the odds were on her side if she ran and hid. Though she has my full protection, something of which very few could boast, that doesn't grant her immunity from the unsavory alleyway characters. As much as I brag of it – not everyone knows the name of Brooklyn should be revered and that my name doesn't strike fear in all the hearts it should.

Strolling casually we reached the far end of the docks away from any of the prying eyes or eves-dropping ears that so often surrounded me. It seemed that no one wanted anything more than to see me fail. This was a chance I would never give them. The newsies could improve the truth of any situation whether in print or just amongst themselves. Knowing this it was always best to engage in any meaningful conversation outside of range of gossip. Pulling out a cigarette I lit it before sitting on the wooden planks beside the lanky girl. Something told me I was going to need it.

"Ya in trouble Snaps?" I asked to break the silence. Taking a long drag off of my cigarette I looked out over the water. In the distance I could hear my boys playing though none ventured in this direction.

"Nah, I ain't." Her tone was casual – almost dismissive. I could feel her look at me with her cat-like eyes. Her long legs dangled off the side of the pier and her shoulder pressed again one of the pier supports.

"Ya need money?" I tried again in attempts to bring forth some sort of answer as I took another deep inhalation off of the smoking stick.

"Nope." Her hand darted out and stole the cigarette from my mouth and placed it between her lips breathing deeply. A wave of satisfaction masked her face and I looked at her sharply.

"Girls shouldn't smoke." My tone matched my gaze as I took back the smoking stick. Snaps glared at me.

"Who says I gotta listen to you?" She sneered, her tone as aloof as mine, and I smirked. If nothing else – Snaps had learned how to adopt an attitude to help her survive in this world.

"I'se your older brother and the leader of your borough." I reminded with a pointed look. "And as such ya gotta listen to me." There was a certain measure of pride that came with those statements. They were very empowering. "If ya don't like it ya can move to Manhattan. I'm sure Jack would _love_ to have ya." My lips curled into a teasing smirk around the butt of my cigarette.

Snaps' face turned a shade of pink at the last phrase. It was a commonly known fact that Jack had always joked about fucking Snaps from here into next Tuesday just to put her in her place. I don't doubt that he would enjoy it, too. There was chemistry there and I always enjoyed watching Snaps blush at the reminder of the Manhattan leader.

"You're just a half-brother." She muttered under her breath while looking enviously at my cigarette and I felt the victory she had given me.

"We'se got the same mother, and I knows that she wouldn't want her daughter to be smoking." I scolded mildly letting the cherry tipped roll dangle between two of my ink-stained fingers.

"Howda you know?" She challenged feistily and the truth was I didn't know.

The truth was our mother had smoked but I doubted Snaps remember that. She was only five when our mother died. Either way Snaps was still a girl and as such she shouldn't smoke. Girls always smelled awful when they smoked and they tasted worst. Smoking, among other things, stole the sweetness from girls. Living this day to day life, not knowing you are going to have a place to sleep or enough to eat, stole the sweetness from girls. Looking at Snaps I felt the same strange pity I felt for that I felt for myself. We were both trapped in a world where sweetness and manners didn't count. She'd never known any different, but I had. Thinking about all this made me tired.

"Whaddaya want Snaps?" I asked with a defeated sigh. She had won that round and I didn't have to look at her to know that she was gloating.

"A curious thing happen to me today." She narrated and I feigned disinterest. "A classy dame talked ta me - asked questions." she had a lazy countenance about her, but I knew she was watching my every move carefully. She was dissecting my expressions and reactions.

"Fancy that." I responded sarcastically. Though I gave her my best apathetic reactions I really was very curious. Snaps never told stories like this unless there was a point.

"Do ya know what she asked about?" she was baiting me - trying to get me to even act slightly interested.

The truth was that my interest was piqued to the point of irritation. The annoying roughness of the dock beneath me wasn't helping. The shrill calls of boys and young men with the raucous laughter of the cheap flirts floated on the air and grated on my highly-strung nerves. I didn't want to give her any ground though. I knew she would use it against me. She always did.

"Anybody can say anything or ask any questions that they want." I looked over the brown river water and focused on enjoying the taste of the nicotine on my tongue. "People talk." I smirked as I looked at her now. "Howdya think we get good headlines?" I shot back sarcastically and she frowned in frustration. Mentally I chalked up another victory on my imaginary score board. I'd won that round.

"This is different, Conlon." Her furrowed brow hovered close to concern, and that surprised me. These guessing games rarely held any serious weight on the end of it. With a signal to wait - I flicked the butt of my cigarette into the river before I responded.

"It's always different with ya, Snaps." I pointed out, patronizing, not wanting her to see how badly I wanted to hear what she had to say. "Always more important than the last thing, or than what anyone else has to say."

I paused and squinted up at the sky. It met my eyes with a harsh brightness. I was tired from last night. I had barely slept in the past thirty-six hours. Snaps' perplexing riddle paired with my chronic insomnia made this more of an ordeal that I would admit. I wanted another smoke.

"Why is this any different?" I looked back down from the sky, directly at her, and she had a very odd expression on her face.

I knew that look. She was weighing her options. That was rarely good. The words that came next were soft but she might as well have screamed them in my ear.

"She was asking about Mary."

I knew my face was as open as a book showing all of the raw pain that just that name. The questions from last night came flooding back to me. That girl was nothing more to me than a physical gratification, but last night questions made it clear that it was more than that for her. It wasn't possible that she was stupid enough to poke her nose into place it didn't belong, was it?

"Horse shit." I snarled.

The old wound reopened, seeping and festering like it always did. I wanted her to take it back, to deny it, but Snaps said nothing in her defense. Instead she reached into her own pocket and pulled out her own cigarette and match. Blatantly she stared at me while she lit up and my heart fell to my stomach.

"You aren't shitting me." I barely trusted my own voice. With a victorious smirk she nodded her head.

"I'm not the only one she talked to." Snaps informed with a sympathetic cruelty. This whole conversation was nothing but a brutal mockery of all of the walls and hardness I had built up to survive.

"What did you tell her?" I inquired dully, but feeling everything but.

It would be in character to tell just enough to ruin my chances with that girl ever again. It would also be in her character to make up some horrible story about my past so the girl would be all weepy and pathetic the next time I saw her. Which one was it, or was there another option I didn't consider? How much damage control was involved now? Tossing her thick brown braid over her shoulder she took a deep inhalation off of the cigarette. My body, tense and humming, waited painfully for her answer. Her calculated use of smoking to draw this out was not lost on me either.

"Nothing." she shrugged.

I stared at her, waiting for a follow up, but none came. Nothing? She was lying. Snaps had a free chance to bastardize my name. She had a chance to essentially castrate me on a level that solely affected me. Spreading that story to some girl I'd seduced wouldn't hurt her life. It wouldn't cause me to fall in the ranks and thus jeopardize her safety in any way. She was lying. It was the only possible solution.

"Nothing." I snorted letting the sarcastic edge of my repetition to sink in. "Sure. You had a chance to ruin my chance with a dame and you said nothing." I chuckled this time, and Snaps glared at me, clearly upset with my accusation.

"I ain't a bitch." she scowled and I gave her another coolly masked look.

"Aren't ya?" I returned and her eyes flashed fire.

"Dammit Conlon! I should go and find that high-class dame and tell her all of it just for you being such a jackass!" she spat in my direction and I smirked. She knew she was beyond hope of winning so she had decided to go out with a bang. "Once I tell her you're nothing but a two-timing bastard who can't straighten out his life enough to stand on two feet – you think she's going to spread her legs for ya?" Her words were all sharply barbed and aimed to draw blood.

There was nothing casual or lazy in her posture now. She was all vim and vigor, fire and brimstone, and she didn't hide the fact that it was all directed towards me. The violence of her reaction made me question her honesty. Maybe she had been telling the truth? It didn't matter. She should have left well enough alone and not talking to anyone about anything.

"The same way ya spread your legs for Jack?" I shot back and instantly regretted it.

It wasn't a widely known fact that my half-sister was a virgin. For all her high talk and forward nature she had never been one to spread herself thin like some of the other girls in the boroughs. The implication that she wasn't hurt her and I knew it. Though she wouldn't admit it – she was proud of her chaste status since so few of our social standing could brag of such a feat.

For a moment there was a silence so deep that even the noise and ruckus from the docks seemed to fade into oblivion. I stared into the eyes of the only living blood I knew, but rarely claimed and I knew that I had failed her. I had always failed her. I had failed her by not giving her the life she deserved; by not raising her in the way my mother, a common whore, would have wanted her to be raised; and by ignoring the want to care, to be human, towards my only sibling. Watching the smoke swirl up from the cigarette that hung forgotten at her side I knew I had failed her. I had failed her much like I had failed Mary. The thought of the angel brought the seeping wound forth once more and poured salt within its painful depths.

"Emma," I addressed the girl softly by her birth name and I saw her dark eyes widen. "If ya telling the truth then what was the girl's name that asked ya the questions?" I pressed. The question was phrased carefully so as not to sound curious, but justified.

"I dunno." I could tell she was still slightly taken back by the use of her real name, but I could see her reconstructing her tough exterior right before my eyes. "How many times did ya have to fuck her to get her this interested in ya, Conlon?" she asked suggestively, pulling herself up to her feet. "I gotta hand it to ya though, Spotty. Ya always get the pretty ones." She took another drag from her cigarette and there she was again. The sharp swing of emotion was gone.

_Alice_.

The name echoed in my mind. Considering the extra dose of curiosity she exhibited last night, none of this is too surprising, but it is frustrating none-the-less. Alice was becoming more problems than she was worth

"Don't talk to anyone about any of this. I'll take care of it." My mind was already moving to a new plan. Something to keep Alice from asking anymore questions. It wouldn't be too difficult.

"Ya can't tell me what to do." Snaps retorted quickly as she started to saunter off. Leaping to my feet I grabbed her wrist before she had a chance to get very far and looked at her harshly.

"Don't think of it as telling – think of it as ordering." My voice low, serious, and the kind of controlling that had a track record of pissing her off.

It was then that I realized that I held the hand with her cigarette. Before I turned and walked back towards the busy part of the docks I grabbed the smoking stick from her hand and took a long satisfactory drag off of it. Her wide dark eyes stormed. Her free hand darted out to try to grab it from my lips.

"Girls shouldn't smoke." I repeated from earlier and flicked the butt of the dock to join mine before she could reclaim it.

Victory was sweet, but I had pissed her off and done a fantastic job of it at that. I could feel the anger radiating off of her in a silent steam when I freed her wrist and journeyed back to my perch atop the crates.

I resumed my place at the top of the crates where Fidget and Marbles were both ardently involved with the girls with which they had previously been conversing. The sight made me angry. I scanned over the docks and spied two other couples enjoying each other as lovers do. It was sickening. The public display was nothing more than a satisfaction for the lust that seemed to be unending in the mass of my underlings. It was a painful reminder of something sweeter that I had lost. The reminder was a sobering and solemn moment indeed as I stared over my empire of filth.

Then I saw Snaps staring at me lazily from a distance. Her posture was relaxed as she stared up at my position from near one hundred feet away. How she had gotten there so quickly from our previous place on the docks was unknown. Even though I knew her skills I was still impressed with her stealth and speed. Her dark eyes were small as they squinted against the light behind my back. When she knew she had my attention I could almost see the smirk appear on her face. As she stood from her reclined position on one of the dock supports and tipped her hat towards me in a mocking salute.

I had offended her and I knew it. She was mad as hell at me and the feeling was partially mutual. There were things that Snaps knew that I didn't want spread around to anyone. Not a newsie, not a factory worker, hell, not even a horse on the street, and certainly not Alice. Knowledge was power and she knew a lot. This was a dangerous thing for even if I was her leader and her brother. Her nature was just volatile enough to do something I would regret and in which she would revel. I didn't want to pick up any of the shit she left for me, but I might not have a choice.

My problem now might have change from not having Alice ask questions, but to having Snaps not answer them.

* * *

**A/N**: Yeah! A chapter from Spot's point of view! Now that was different, but I promised he would be in this chapter, and we finally got some names filled in. So our heroine, is Alice, the girl newsie at the diner is Snaps, and Spot, is of course, SPOT! But the kicker is, the girl that broke Spot's heart, is MARY! We don't know _how_ she broke his heart _yet_…. I have no idea where I am going with this whole story, so bear with me. This will no doubt end up in a train wreck of a complete revision, or maybe, just _maybe_ I can think of a good way to resolve it all. Maybe… now to the notes for my review board!

**Frenchy**: Ha, well, you know, you can take a guess to what I am going to do, but I don't even know what I am going to do, so your guess is as good as mine. We will just have to see what my muses have in store and pray that it will be good! Thanks for the review!

**Lady Elwen**: Thanks for the compliments and I am glad that you enjoyed it. Personally I really liked the last chapter, this one, I think I am going to have to warm up to it, but I am pretty sure I will like it. I hope this was worth the wait!

**Priscilla2**: Oh, thank you much for saying that I can portray Spot in new and different ways. I really try to do that, I don't like being cliché, even though most of my stories are nothing but… Ah well, I try, right? I'll be getting to **Blind Spot**soon, hopefully. I just have to read through it again and get back into the characters and everything. Thanks for the review and I hope all is well with you!

**Ireland O'Riely**: You know something, I think that you are just the best reviewer I have. You review EVERYTHING dang it. Ha! And you always have something good to say. You are my hero. ^_^ My, my, Goose Liver, can't be worse then squid tentacles. Thank you again for the review and I hope that this was worth the wait. ^_^ Darn those muses, they never want to write what I need to write. Darn it.

**Morning Dew**: Ah, another review from the famous Dewey. I'm glad that you like my writing and your compliments are most flattering. Thank you much.

**Thistle**: I am keeping writing, just in spurts! Ha. I hope this was worth the wait, and thanks for all the reviews on all my other stories!

_Shameless Plug__**:**_ canalstreetlodging

GO AND JOIN THAT LODGING HOUSE! After you review of course. *blush*


	4. Repercussions

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. I don't own Spot, I own Mary and Snaps, and Ireland owns herself. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

**A/N**: Yeah, so now I am focusing on this story I guess. Ah well, I'll get to **Blind Spot** when I get to it. Sorry all, I just really like this story right now. **Note**: This story is from a first person point of view, but the point of view changing nearly every chapter. As I change the point of view, the words I use the way I describe things alter slightly. This is because I am not going to use ten-dollar words for a girl or boy who haven't been as educated as an upper-class girl does. So keep that in mind.

**Warning**: PG-13 (language)

**Chapter 4**: Repercussions

* * *

He had always watched out for me in a way which grew more distant the more powerful he became, but I had always known that I could count on him. I understood why things were the way they were. I may not be book-learned but I'm not stupid.

He treated me just like he treated every other boy in the group. He expected me to pay my own way and fight my own battles, and I did. I could always count on him to be there if a boy was too forceful, but so could every other girl in the borough. Spot had a low tolerance for all things nonconsensual, even more so since Mary. I didn't expect special treatment, but sometimes I missed having a brother instead of the cocky Brooklyn leader we all knew.

Good old Spotty – we all loved to hate him. Hate was probably a term a bit too strong, but no one really loved him. At times I wondered if I did. Everyone had a respect for him. The respect was rooted in a deep fear that some of the awful rumors about him might be true and we would find out their truth the hard way. Others envied him, and that was understandable. He wasn't the best looking mug in the group but the ladies didn't seem to mind. He was a strange character, just the right blend between power, charm, brains, and brawn. By no means was he the biggest or the best in anything really, but he was good enough at everything that he managed to beat everyone every time.

_Don't talk to anyone about any of this_. I remembered the harsh, commanding words. _Don't think of it as telling – think of it as ordering__. _

Everyone that was anyone in the newsie rings already knew the story of Spot and Mary, or at least enough to let it be. There were a lot of stories about the Mary and Spot. Most of them I'd made up with Ireland or Jack to save my Spot's ass. What could it hurt to tell some random girl that had fallen victim to my half-brother's charm? It was true that he might beat the hell out of me if he found out that I had told this girl anything it would almost be worth it.

I had defended him in the diner when that dame had been asking so many damn questions. I had covered his drunk ass when he'd come back to the lodging house time and time again three sheets to the wind because of Mary. I'd kept my distance and made sure that others did the same. I'd spread the rumors about the boys that left the lodging house as being kicked out from crossing Spot. I'd kept my side of the bargain even when it wasn't easy, so for my goddamn half-brother to go around _ordering_ me to do something, like a child, like I'd ever let him down before, pissed me off.

Ordering me! Of course he was the leader, of course he was in command, but this was a personal matter! A personal matter that I _never _betrayed at my own discomfort, and hell, I am a newsie! My job is to tell stories and make interesting headline. Who really gave a rat's ass about whether or not some broad was asking about Mary besides my egocentric half-brother?

The blue sky was clear as the sun sank down towards the horizon. Night would come within a few hours and I was glad for not swimming this day mid-August day. I wouldn't have time to dry out and I'd be miserable all night. Unlike the boys I couldn't just strip off my wet clothes and let them dry on the docks. Well, I could – but Spot would drown me. Looking back towards the long span of boards covered with crates and fishing supplies. Some of it was long abandoned, but made great perches for the swimmers. I could still barely make out Spot still sat like a king atop the crates. Sometimes his cane glinted in the afternoon sun. Even though he was little more than a shadow against the backdrop of the sky I could tell that his back was much more rigid than his normal pose and I smiled inwardly. He was _mad_.

"Snaps!" I heard someone call my name just as I walked off of the docks.

"What do ya want, Ireland?" I asked without waiting for her to catch up to me, without looking to see her. I knew her voice. I also knew that she'd be after me the second after she knew I'd had an audience with the great Brooklyn leader.

I was not in the mood for small talk as tall girl approached me. She was just as tall as I was, but curvier. Her skin was as white as one of those hoity-toity dames of society. When she had first come around these parts, her hair had been shorter then it was now. I figured she'd cut it to blend in with the boys, but now the locks of thick dark blonde hair hung a bit past her shoulders. I'd always hated her for being pretty.

"What didja do to cheese off Brooklyn so badly?" Ireland asked, her cornflower blue eyes flashing with curiosity. I smirked and kept walking.

"Is he pissed?" I returned casually, but inside I smiled. "Didn't notice," I leant against one of the lampposts that were positioned on the corners of the streets and scanned the late afternoon crowds.

"Ya didn't notice?" Ireland looked at me skeptically as she folded her long arms across her chest. Shoving my hands in my pockets I looked at her indignantly.

"Should I have?" I quirked up one eyebrow.

She eyed me suspiciously. Ireland was one of the few people I'd call a friend in the borough, but sometimes she was thick. I wasn't even playing hardball. She was one of the few that I could actually be candid with about the exchange on the dock because she knew as much as I did about Mary. Well, almost.

"Yous the one that talked to him." She accused. I rolled my eyes at her and tucked my tongue into my cheek.

"Yeah, I am." Nodding slowly and I agreed to her statement. Would she understand what I was trying to tell her without spelling it out? Probably not. She already was taking the long way like she always did. Hadn't she heard the talk amongst the boys?

"Now he's pissed." Ireland pried and I nodded again.

Shoving my weight off of the lamppost I started to walk away when she came after me. Matching my lazy pace she followed as I lead her away from the docks. The way she had responded made me think that she thought I was going to run off without giving her an answer. I wasn't looking to run from her - I was just leading her along as far as I could. It was all about getting a reaction. Just like Spot – I lived for the reaction.

"Snaps." She nearly whined. "What is going on?"

People were out and about this afternoon. Mainly it was children fortunate enough not to work playing in the streets. Their cries of joy filled the air along with the sounds of every day life. The sound of a horse's hooves on the cobblestones blended with the sound of a mother calling out to her child. I focus in on these things instead of focusing on Ireland.

"Dammit Snaps, are ya going to tell me or not?" That was the reaction I had been waiting for.

I knew that I had to work pretty hard to get a sweet girl like Ireland to lash out like that. She was a bit of a prude in her language. She preferred what she called 'more romantic words'. She was a rare breed of idealist in a world of idealism had no place. Turning to her with a knowing smirk I tucked my tongue into my cheek before fastening my eyes on the road ahead of me once more.

I could feel Ireland's blue eyes burning holes in my skull and I knew she wanted an answer. She had always been real possessive of Spot and worried when he was upset in any way. I guess that happens when to you once you fuck a guy and are his girl.

Ireland used to be Spot's girl. She wore a key matching his around her neck, which Spot had given her, along with some strange Irish emblem. As far as I knew she never took it off. To me it was nothing but an unneeded reminder of the past. A newsie doesn't want a past. A newsie doesn't want to have anything that could make them weak. Again this is where the idealist in Ireland shone through. She really was a sentimental thing, but no one ever told her that. They were too scared of her temper. She had been with Spot before Mary, and I knew she wanted him back now.

What Ireland saw in Spot – I'd never know.

"Ya know how Spot gets after a long day." I pointed out. "He's a mean bastard if I'se ever seen one." I chuckled to myself, but Ireland didn't seem to share my humor.

I didn't force the issue in an attempt to divert her Irish temper away from me. I wasn't scared of it. I had one of my own to match. Today was just not the day I wanted to deal with it.

"What did ya say to him?" She demanded and I sighed inwardly.

The girl wasn't going to let it go.

I shrugged and looked up at the sky, "I brought up Mary. That's all."

Ireland literally stopped in her tracks. I kept going. Her disbelief tasted good.

"What?" She said a little too loudly as she jogged to catch up. "You did what?" She repeated in a much more hushed tone. It was as though she was asking a great and terrible question and was afraid that anyone would hear it.

"I brought up Mary." I spoke plainly, as if it was an every day occurrence, and I swear her large blue eyes doubled in size. Delivery really is important.

"You what?" Her voice hissed like steam. "Why in the blue hell did ya do that?" Her temper began to seep into her tone.

Her anger struck me as strange. The phenomenon of her over protection of my brother pricked at my jealousy. Friend or not, it irritated me that she was closer to my brother than I ever could be, and I considered not answering her. I thought of holding the rest of the secret close to my chest just to spite her for the intimacy she had and I didn't, but that wouldn't be as fulfilling as defying Spot's _orders_. The chances of Spot finding out about my disobedience were infinitely better if Ireland was the one I told. She always looked for reasons to approach him, comfort him, it could be perfect. It could be one of the stupidest things I'd done to date.

"A broad came around asking about Mary. I think she was one a Spot's whores, a nosey little bitch." I spat on the ground and saw my saliva mix into the dirt and stones as we walked past.

Ireland said nothing for a short time. I knew it probably hurt her that Spot entertained other women freely now and hadn't gone back to her, but she couldn't control him any more than I could. I wiggled my fingers in my pockets wishing that I would find a cigarette to feed my burning nicotine craving. The few puffs on my last one which Spot had tossed into the water only served to increase my desire.

"Does she know – about Mary that is?" Ireland's voice sounded concerned. As if some girl knowing that Spot had girls before her would hurt him. As if Ireland knowing exactly what happened was the most crucial thing to Spot's happiness.

"Why should she?" I scoffed up at the sky. I flipped my long dark braid over my shoulder. My hair was going to be as hot as hell this summer.

"Cause you told her." It was an accusation and a question tied together.

I shot her a cold look. "All I told her was to mind her own damn business."

Ireland held her hands up as if to deflect the dagger in my gaze. "So how did she know about Mary in the first place? What do ya think she wants to know about her for?"

Ireland pried and now _I_ started to get annoyed. How in the hell was I supposed to know? I'm not a mind reader. I don't even know why this girl would want to be with my brother in the first place. I wracked my brain for an answer, any answer, which might cover her questions.

"The same reason yous asking all these questions." I shot back with a smirk. "Ya care about him." It made sense, and it made Ireland go quiet for a moment.

"Ya don't think…" She started after the pause and then hesitated.

I waited. We were almost back at the lodging house. If she wanted to keep up this conversation she'd better think faster. There was no room for discussions like this in the mixed company of bunk rooms. You never knew how alone you actually were in those thin walls.

We turned onto the lodging house street when she asked a question I hadn't expected.

"Ya don't think that Spot's going to hurt the girl for asking questions, do ya?" She brought up and my mind froze.

I had expected a question wondering if Spot was in love with this girl or if the girl was prettier than she was. I expected a little more jealousy and a lot less compassion and forethought. This question showed honest concern and I scowled slightly. Things Ireland said rarely caught me off guard and even more rarely made me think.

Would he?

Spot was a mean bastard at times, and a jackass to boot, but he wasn't abusively cruel. He wouldn't just hit a dame for no reason. He'd hit me but everyone knew I deserved it. I'd seen him land a punch on girls who challenged him the borough. As far as I knew he'd never hit Ireland but that didn't mean he hadn't. He always had a reason, though. That's what made him different. I'd seen the carnal glow in my half-brother's eyes during a fight, feeding on raw adrenaline, but it never controlled him the way it did some men. He always had a reason.

My silence was my response.

Ireland didn't push the matter because I think she understood. I couldn't give her any reassurance. I had none. I knew Spot knew exactly which girl it was, too. I'd seen it in his eyes. I wouldn't put it past Spot to be aggressive towards that poor girl, but that was what you got for poking your nose where it didn't belong. Maybe she didn't understand that now, but thanks to me the chances are she would soon.

If something were to happen to this girl it would be partly my fault. Spot never would have known if I hadn't felt like getting a reaction from him, if I hadn't been so driven to make him squirm, to pull some sort of response from him. Any other newsie would have kept their gob shut, but I didn't. I pushed him a little further, prodded a little too hard. Hell, he could get carried away and kill her and it would be on my head as well as much as his. I groaned inwardly as Ireland and I pushed into the lodging house.

I was such a damn idiot, sometimes.

Now I really had to find that girl and make sure that she would shut up. Ireland could say what she wanted. I'd handle Spot, and maybe get a few solid punches in on my own, but this girl didn't know the rules. She didn't know the history or the reasons for what we did. Chances were even higher that she never imagined the possible fallout from her curiosity.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading to the bunkroom. Ireland passed by me and paused only once to look back and give me a questioning look.

"I'm not ready to settle in." I shove my hands deep into my pockets, rocking onto my toes.

Ireland gives me a look that lets me know she picked up on my lie, but is too preoccupied to call me out on it. That made me glad because the last thing I needed was to hear myself say my mission out loud. It was ridiculous enough tucked away. I didn't need the judgment, or the company, or the potential blabbing to my brother. What I needed was to find that girl and warn her. How I was going to do that, I wasn't quite sure, but I knew that I had to.

Damn it.

I hated having a conscience.

* * *

**A/N**: *smile* obviously this chapter is dedicated to my friend Ireland O'Reily and I added her into it just because she is such a loyal reviewer. Ha. Moral: Review loyally and I will put you in my stories. Ha. She didn't know I was going to do this, I hope I captured her character in a way she likes. Yeah, anyway, so –uh - REVIEW!

**Priscilla2**: Heh, yeah, theories are dangerous things. I can normally pick out a plot, but while I was writing this, my whole idea for the chapter had changed by the end. Yeah, I am a dork. Ah well, I have absolutely no idea where I am going with this story, but I hope you continue to enjoy it.

**Lucky**: I'm glad you like this story and I am so flattered that you think it is original. I like to aim for that in a world of clichés. Thank you much and I hope you continue to enjoy.

**Mismatch Quinn**: I hope that you continue to enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it! Thanks for the compliments.


	5. Hurt

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. I don't own Spot, I own Mary and Snaps, and Ireland owns herself. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

**A/N**: I am obsessed with writing this story and I think that it is going to become longer then I expected. Maybe even up to ten chapters. This could be fun.

**Warning**: PG-13 (language)

**Chapter 5**: Hurt

* * *

Spot had always been jealous, but never violent. At least towards me, that is. But that was before Mary, and that was like comparing cats and dogs. There was no doubt in my mind that he was capable of great and terrible things. If half of the rumors about him were true that would be enough proof for that. The fights I'd seen him in were quick and brutal. Spot was never one to waste time, but when he touched me…. When he had touched me it had been like he had all the time in the world. What wouldn't I give to have him back?

I should have gone with Snaps.

Whatever she was doing had to do with Spot. I knew it did. That reason held me back as much as it made me regret staying behind. Gripping the trinity knot around my neck I felt the key slide down and gently rap my knuckles. Spot had given me that key. That memory sent an ache into my heart. I still loved Spot. Even though I knew that he didn't return the feeling I couldn't bring myself to stop.

My mind whirled with thoughts of Spot and Snaps. I was close to both, in different ways, but I still shuddered to think of what would happen if I ended up on the bad side of either. The girl was as silent as a cat, stealthier than her brother, often slouched in some shadow taking in everything around her. The boy was the type that always drew attention, light was drawn to him, and he couldn't blend in if he tried. Both had eyes that could turn so dark and hard and mocking at a whim. Both were capable of cruelty because both knew that is what it took to survive.

Even knowing this – I missed him.

Sitting heavily on my bunk I lay down and looked at the bottom of the mattress above me. Anger, jealousy, and loneliness curled up in my gut. It wasn't fair to be this close to him but not have him. The reminder of Mary didn't help me disposition, either. I hated her. With every breath I took, I hated her. I hated her for what she took from Spot, for what she took from me.

My teeth clenched. I wouldn't cry. My face always got red and puffy when I cried and I didn't have time to let it go back to normal without people noticing. Other newsies would be coming back soon. I wouldn't have them see me that way. I wouldn't have Spot see me that way.

The thought of Spot being here in the room sent my pulse racing.

He was so beautiful even though I'd never tell him. He'd take offense to the word, but he was, and I witnessed his beauty first hand. High, blunt cheek bones, wide eyes a calculating blue, and dark hair bleached lighter from the sun – he was a sight to behold. Lean muscles and hard sinews covered by smooth skin. His physical strength came from all of the fights I knew he got into but few of us ever saw. For being so good at drawing attention to himself – he had a way of disappearing when business needed to be done. There was a streak of exhibitionism in Spot, though. He knew how to make a point.

A noise sounded on the stairs outside the door in the halls. I half expected to see Snaps come through the door, but she didn't. It wasn't anyone I was interested seeing. It was two younger boys, Trip and Dash, and they didn't seem too interested in seeing me, either. We nodded our acknowledgements as they entered.

Their clothes were wet and clinging to them still as they made little puddles as they dripped while they walked. They had slung their shoes over their backs and their bare feet made tracks on the floor. Both of their hair was dark and plastered back against their head. Their laughter was annoying as they interrupted my deep thoughts.

"I can't believe she asked you 'bout Spot, too!" The shorter of the two, Dash, exclaimed as he laughed. "What's Spot doing mashed up with a dame like her?" They continued their conversation regardless of my presence. My heart clenched at their topic.

"Guess the little hussy don't know what's good for her." Trip laughed along with his companion as they headed over towards the window on the far end of the bunkroom.

They went to out on the fire escape, probably headed to the roof to dry off. As they exited I realized I was holding my breath. Could they be talking about the same girl Snaps mentioned? How many of the newsies had this strange girl talked to? Who was this girl? Clearly this was a sign. Clearly this was a call to action.

I jumped to my feet and hurried down the stairs. I needed to find Snaps. I needed to find Spot.

I hurried along the streets and back ways. My shoes were wearing thin on the soles and I knew that I would need to patch them or get a new pair before winter came. Though summer wasn't a joy to behold in New York – I hated winter with a far greater passion.

It wasn't a long walk. I reached the customary dock where all the lower class working boys and girls played after their day of work in a matter of minutes. Automatically, my gaze went to the top of the crates where Spot always perched whenever he deemed it worthy of his time to lounge at the docks. He wasn't there.

A feeling of anxiety twisted inside me. There were not that many places I knew to look for him and even less places that I _wanted _to look for him.

I moved down onto the docks and gave a careful look at the waters as I passed just to be sure he wasn't here. Spot enjoyed swimming, though he rarely indulged, so it was no surprise when I didn't see him. Looking up I saw Marbles sitting near the crates where Spot typically sat. A stupid grin lit on his face as he teased a pretty girl.

"Marbles!" He looked at me, annoyed. "Where's Spot?"

I approached. He shot me a pointed look and glanced back at the sweet thing on his lap, but I ignored his aggravation. As far as ranking among the newsies was concerned I was higher than he on the totem pole and my concern for Spot went far beyond his need to get laid.

"He ain't here."

He looked down at the girl lustfully and I rolled my eyes. I pulled on my toughest expression.

"No shit. Tell me where the hell he went." I grabbed his shoulder and pushed him roughly.

Swearing wasn't my habit, nor was roughness, but I knew when to use it. There was no room for convention and nicety here. Here it was a boys' world. If I wanted to be a girl I needed to go somewhere else.

Marbles looked surprised. He hadn't expected that from me. For an instant wasn't focused on the minx in his arms.

"I think he said something about The Scrape." Marbles said, but I barely caught it. His lips mashed against the giggling girl on his lap as a punctuated end to our conversation.

The disrespectful end to our exchange should have upset me, but it didn't. Instead every cell in my brain went to the name of the bar that Spot frequented: The Scrape. My stomach churned. There was something dark and sinful about that place that left me feeling soiled. By no means was I a saint but the characters in that bar made my skin crawl. I'd sold headlines speaking of rape and murder in that neighborhood nearly every day I'd been carrying the banner. The idea of being in that area sat ill with me. To put it mildly: I hated that place.

The hate of the location was drowned out, however, by my overwhelming urge to talk to Spot. I needed to know that he was all right and that if there was anything I could do to help him. Chances were, if he was at The Scrape, he needed a friend. I could be that for him.

It was barely past five. Spot being at The Scrape this early was a bad sign. Normally, if he went, didn't go there until after most of the boys had turned in for the night. He kept tabs on everything, everyone. His omnipresence was a huge part of his successful stint as leader, but this was just one example of the many ways Spot had changed in the past year. He'd taken liquor all since I'd known him, but he never got drunk until after Mary.

I moved along the streets mechanically. My brain occupied with thoughts other than navigation. If I didn't think too much about where I was going I wouldn't dread it as much. At least during the trip the sunlight was out, but it was a good piece before I found the small hole in the wall run down slum that Spot enjoyed for reasons which were mysterious to me. With a deep breath I steeled myself against the fear fluttering in my stomach and pressed open the door.

Instantly, my senses were overwhelmed with cheap smoke and booze. The warm sunlight from outside didn't exist in the dim atmosphere. A sinking feeling entered the pit of my stomach as I forced my eyes to adjust to the hazy light. A piano played some bar melody that I didn't know over in one corner. A few men sang to it in an off-pitch harmony that made me cringe. Painted woman in cheap skimpy clothes served the tables and were probably already looking for a night's work.

I didn't want to be there. Men's eyes already were scanning me like the more colorfully dressed women. They wondered if I would be turned into their whore even though I wore pants just as they did and wore none of the finery the other women did. I was female and in that place a female was nothing more than something to fulfill more carnal pleasures. Shyness welled up inside to crowd my anxiety. All I wanted was to find Spot and get out of there.

Finally my eyes landed on a shadowed figure as they sat at the bar. Shoulders hunched over an empty shot glass, a gray cap joined two others that he obviously had drained, and a gold tipped cane was at his side. My heart felt as though a fist had wrapped around it and squeezed. Every painful and wonderful memory flooded back to me in a breath. He shifted on his hard seated stool, the motion snapping me back to purpose.

I walked towards him trying not to attract attention to myself. Unlike Snaps – I don't have the gift of slipping in and out of places without being noticed. I felt like every eye was on me. Sliding onto the seat next to him I looked at him and he didn't move. The cerulean blue of his eyes was glassy as he stared at the bottom of his glass, seeming to try and make more of the booze appear in the container, but it wasn't working. It was a long awkward moment before he spoke.

"What do ya want, Ireland?"

I was not surprised that he had known who had sat beside him, but disturbed at the tone. It held nothing of the self-confidence and cocky smug attitude for which Brooklyn was known.

"I wanted to talk to ya." I said.

My voice was strange to my own ears in this room. I was thrown off guard by Spot's unwavering focus on his shot glass, by his tone, by his appearance. He'd barely moved him lips when he'd spoken. He accepted another glass from the bartender and stared at it briefly. Then with lightning speed he slammed it back before shoving it into the cluster three other little glasses. There was a bite in his voice to match the bite of his drink.

"Must be damn important. Yous hate this place."

He now stared at his hands. They were strong hands and I knew the feel of them. My body ached for his touch, but now wasn't the time.

"I talked to Snaps. She said that there was a girl asking questions – about Mary."

I watched his expression carefully, and noted that his features didn't waver at all. He didn't even blink until her name. His fists clenched and he squeezed his eyes shut. A deep scowl chiseled lines into his forehead as he bowed his face down to the balled fists on the scared wooden counter. The key that matched mine around his neck fell down and rapped against that same counter.

"Why are ya here, Ireland?"

When he looked up at me from his lowered position my accelerated heart stopped cold. It wasn't a face I recognized. The absolute anger, misery, and self-hate in his red-rimmed eyes struck me like a slap in the face. He looked absolutely terrible.

"I want to help ya, Spot." I reached out a hand and touched his arm hesitantly.

"Ya can't." He jerked his arm away from me and my heart tore in two. His face was back against his fists in hiding.

"I could if ya'd let me. There's gotta be something I can do for ya."

Spot shook his head against his fists at my every word. We'd had this conversation before. It never changed even though I wanted it to.

"If there was something ta be done – don't ya think I'da done it already?"

He sat up abruptly and slammed his open palms on the bar. The sound rang out above the noise of the bar, but no one stopped, no one cared. I cared, though. I understood. If there were something to be done with this terrible affliction of unreturned love I would have done it as well, but there wasn't. That fact didn't help that I still wanted to suck his pain out of him like venom from a wound.

"Ya need to let it go Spot. Mary's gone now and the boys need you."

"Get outta here Ireland."

Everything about him is a warning, but I didn't move. He scowled deeper and signaled the bartender to give him another drink. Then another, another, and another shot of burning whiskey, each one said he wouldn't leave. He exhaled deeply after the fourth and I felt the growl that caught in his throat with it. I ached for him. I longed to simply erase the hurt that he had.

"Come on, Spot. Let's get outta here. Snaps is wondering where you are." That was a lie, but a good one. I reached for his arm, but he tore it away.

"I said get outta here. Stay the hell away from me."

He was already half drunk and that meant he was whole mean.

This wasn't the first time he had done this, and it probably wouldn't be the last. At times he seems better, but it never really goes away. These things never really go away. Each time I watch him swim with memories that he can't drown made a burning ache well up within me. Hopelessness consumes me as I knew that there was nothing I could do him to stop him. He stopped listening a year ago.

"If ya need me ya know where to find me."

I slid off of the barstool with those words, and even though he didn't respond I knew he had heard me. I walked out of the bar but I didn't bother to look back because I knew it wouldn't do any good. All it would provide was another chance for me to cave into the tears I knew would come eventually. Clutching my trinity knot I prayed that Spot wouldn't do anything that would make me miss him any more than I already did. I even prayed for the girl, whoever she was, to have enough sense to stop asking questions. If she didn't stop on her own – Spot might help her.

That was one moment I prayed would never come.

**. : ^_^ : .**

**A/N**: Okay, I think I have an idea where I am going with this one this time. Maybe. But I am just going to keep writing and hope that I don't dig myself into a plot hole. *crosses fingers* So thank you for your reviews and KEEP REVIEWING! It is a great motivation to write! And who knows, if you are a good reviewer, I might feature you in my story. *wink*

**Fox**: Who is Mary? Well I guess we haven't quite found out many details about her have we? Ha! Authors love to keep their readers on the edge of their seats, which is how we get you to come back for more! I hope that you will keep coming back and reviewing for many feature chapters. Thanks for liking my story! You have great taste. -_^

**Lucky**: Well here is the more that you wanted and for me this is a really fast update. But really I am being a good girl and updating this one regularly. I think I do just not want to update my other story. Ha. I'm a bad girl.

**Umm**: I updated and now you will just have to wait again. Isn't that the bad part? You get into a story and then there is a new chapter… and then you have to wait again! Agh! What a vicious cycle! But I will really try to keep this one updated regularly.

**Mismatch Quinn**: Glad that you are still enjoying and still wanting to know more. Personally, I want to know more too and I am the one writing it! What great motivation! Ha. I'm such a dork. Thanks for the review.

COME ON REVIEWERS! *review dance*


	6. Intoxication

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, Mary, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: Sorry this one took a little longer to get up then the others. I know that these chapters aren't long at all, but this weekend was absolutely crazy. So I hope that you all still love me and don't hate me for being a little tardy with this.

**Warning**: PG-13 (implied sexual situations, language, angst, abuse, adult situations)

**Chapter 6**: Intoxication

* * *

It burned.

The whiskey slid down my throat and it _burned. _Even so, it didn't even compare to the ripping feeling in my chest. Even when I was drunk I couldn't forget her. Something in me half-wanted Ireland to return and make me leave this place, but I knew she wouldn't. That girl was about as soft as a newsie could be and survive, but she wasn't stupid. I'd told her to leave. She did. For as much as she cared, she hated being here twice as much. No – she wouldn't be back.

My key tapped against a shot glass on the scared wood and I knew I shouldn't ask for another drink, but I could still feel everything. Every memory was still there – painfully intact. Each word, each look, each expression, each touch, and each memory were still there with a stabbing intensity. I could still _feel _everything. I could still see the look on Mary's face after I had lost control. I clenched my fist against the pain.

I normally was so good at keeping the memories in check. I normally could press on and force everything else into the background. Remembering didn't help anyone. Remembering only hurt. Forgetting was my first priority, but I never could. Tonight hurt as badly as the first night and I'd had just enough to drink to make it nearly impossible to control my thoughts.

It had been a year this month since I had last seen her. A year since I forced her out of my life by my own actions. It seemed longer, but I remembered everything like it happened yesterday. I thought I would have forgotten her by now. I was supposed to have forgotten her. I thought it wouldn't hurt like this anymore, not after a fucking year.

I'd never see Mary again. Even though I knew that, I couldn't accept it. I couldn't breathe when I thought it.

Sometimes I prayed in the way she taught me. When I prayed it was always for her to come back. I wanted to kiss her, hold her her, and to make love to her. Love – yes that is what it had been. When I touched her it had been different than all the other times with more experienced girls. My skin burned to touch hers even in the simplest ways. My eyes ached to see the curve of her neck or the slope of her jaw. I couldn't breathe at the thought of her.

She consumed me. I hadn't realized the fullness these feelings of it, then. Was it possible to love her even more now? I lifted my head and motioned for another drink. This needed to end.

A small hand rubbed over the back of my shoulders. The touch clearly intended for seduction, and I grew nauseous. No doubt it was one of the whores looking for a job as evening quickly approached. I knew how they worked. If they got an early enough start they would be able to score two in a night. I knew the way their minds worked because it was the same as mine did. They needed to survive.

I was proud of the fact that I'd never paid money to sleep with a woman. My mother had given herself to men for the money and become pregnant with me and my sister when she had thought herself in love with a client. A ring had never been placed to her finger, though. Disease and heartache had aged her quickly and taken her when I was young. The memory of sitting in the hall with Emma in my arms while her callers came and went kept me from wanting purchased fruits. I'd never take a woman who gave herself out of desperation.

I turned to see the pert little blonde that Marbles had described earlier. Her hips bloomed out under the faded violet dress as her plump breasts pushed over the bodice's hem. Painted lips were parted seductively. Her blonde hair was tied up in a mess on her crown. Even with all of the makeup and overt sexuality she didn't look old enough to be selling herself.

"Ya look like ya need to relax." She said.

She practically purred in my ear, but there was hardness in her eyes. She was tough because she had to be and we both knew she would end up like all the rest. She'd be like my mother, with children brought on by her occupation and need for love, or she'd learn about the backdoor abortion clinics where girls left either mangled or dead.

She would die as poor as she was born. So would I. I couldn't help that, but I wouldn't be one of the men that bought her. She was beautiful, that was true, but I couldn't. I wouldn't.

_One of life's greatest joys is helping those who are having trouble helping themselves._

The ghostly phrase broke through my thoughts from a dark place in my memory. There was a picture of a soft smile and content expression which came with the words and I dug into my pocket. Pulling out some coins from my day's work I handed them to the whore beside me. A smile turned her lips up seductively as she lent in towards me for a kiss. She'd misunderstood my intentions and I pushed her back.

"Take the night off."

She looked at me in shock. Rejection was something to which she wasn't accustomed, and generosity even less so. Regardless, she scooped up the coins and flounced away. Truth be told - I was about as used to handing out my hard earned cash to hookers as she was used to accepting something for nothing in return. That goddamn virtue echoed in my mind's ability to ignore my conscious. I'd rather listen to it than pay the consequence of hearing the same voice's gentle reprimands.

The room swam after a few more shots. The numbness that I craved sank deep into my bones. How long had I been there? The sensuous blonde had moved onto a different customer, but I didn't care. I'd her to. I knew the need to make a buck wherever I could. She was smart. I respected that.

My mind wandered. Another smart girl popped into my thoughts. That girl was the reason I was here tonight, feelings and memories dredged up from the bottom, and my anger boiled. The bitch! She had no business seeking out my boys and asking questions she didn't need answered. I didn't belong to her. I didn't belong to anyone. I fumbled for some change in my pocket, awkwardly slammed it on the bar, and left.

The warm buzz from the alcohol was choked out by sharp pain. Who was Alice to remind me of everything I was trying to forget? She was no one. She was a girl I bed when I had an itch, convenient and warm. That was all. I'd show her. I'd tell her who was boss.

The street was crooked. I stumbled over the cobblestones that normally gave me no problems. Someone tipped New York on its side. The sky was dark. Few were on the street to see my staggers. My hazed, irrational mind burned with purpose. Crooked streets be damned – I would get to my destination.

I slipped unnoticed into the tenement building I frequented nearly every other week. I crept up the stairs to the apartment I knew well. Anger boiled close to the surface as I pounded the door. Each thread and fiber that wove me together trembled with the need to release the pressure that hammered in my ears. I wanted to beat the hell out of the woman whom had surfaced memories that were much better left forgotten. I wanted someone other than myself to blame for this pain.

When the door cracked open I pushed my way inside without hesitation. I heard her shocked gasp of surprise. Good. Let her be surprised. I had been.

I kicked the door shut behind me and faced her.

"Ya shouldn't poke around where ya ain't wanted."

"S-spot. What are you doing here?"

I stepped forward. She stepped back. Large eyes, dark with fright, watched me. I'd figured her out and she knew it. She was scared of me. Good! I was scared of me, too. I knew what I was capable of doing.

When I stepped forward she stepped back.

She didn't expect me. I'd been there last night and I didn't normally come more than twice a month and I never came drunk. I had no patience for our cat-and-mouse dance. I quickly grabbed her upper arm with more strength than I meant to. I heard her gasp in pain. My world mixed into a red blur and the sound was rewarding. I wanted her to hurt like she hurt me.

"What are you doing? You're hurting me."

She tried to pull her arm away but it didn't work. I was too strong. She wanted to know what I was doing? I'd show her. I'd prove my point.

"Ya good for nothing hussy."

My voice was louder than I thought it would be and she flinched. Using the leverage I had in my hold on her – I shoved her down so she collapsed on the ground. A cry cut off with a sickening thud met my ears in pleasing cadence. My head swam. My heart pounded heavily in my chest. I felt no better at her initial pain. It wasn't enough. Nothing was ever enough. His was her fault. She brought this on herself. I fumbled for my cane. My fingers wrapped around the hard tip and I pulled it from my suspenders.

"Ya little bitch!" I brandished my cane like a sword.

She sprawled on the ground, helpless and terrified, and I paused. Her white nightshift tangled around her legs and feet. The white against the dark wood floor was a stark contrast. Her hand was up in front of her face as if to guard herself. Her hair flowed around her where she had left it undone after the day was done. The child like pose of fear and submission wasn't what stopped me from striking her, though. It was her eyes.

They were wide and dark. I'd only seen this look before. For an instant I was transported back to a time when Mary had a similar expression, her body beneath me begging with her expression, and again my world came crashing down around me. A terrible weakness shot through my entire body. It started at my center and shot to my legs, my arms, my fingers. My cane dropped to the ground by my feet. I felt bile in my throat.

I'd almost struck a defenseless woman. I was no better than the men at The Scrape who took the whores to bed and abused them. If Mary had been here to see this…What the hell had I been thinking? That one thought was enough to knock me off my feet.

My knees buckled beneath me. I crumpled beside my cane. A mighty trembling shot through my limbs. It was like I was caught in a strong wind, but the room was still. My body shot felt cold all over. I craved warm and gathered her into my arms. She was shaking, or maybe I was? I reeled. Warring emotions seized my mind and I couldn't focus, couldn't breathe.

Alice cried.

The silent sobs tore at me. I didn't love her, that I knew, but the power I held over her frightened me. Who was I to strike this woman that I already abused? Grasping her chin, I forced her to look at me. The fear that had been there before was still there. For the slightest instant – I saw Mary in her eyes. It was barely a fleeting moment but I had seen it. The vision ruined me.

I should leave her, but that instant where I saw Mary held me back. I needed this. I needed her. I latched my mouth to hers, stifling her sobs. There was no resistance. There never had been. All of the loathing and weakness that had invaded my body were replaced by the immediate flush of lust. I felt her give into the faithless embrace as whiskey brought forth my rough instincts.

Alcohol and anger had failed me in killing my sorrow. I replaced them with carnal pleasure. Alice reminded me of _her_. The only woman I'd really ever loved. The only woman I'd ever really lost. Alice's body was pliant and accommodating. Every move I mad against her tonight was her fault, she'd take the blame, because tonight she was going to pay for her sin of making me remember by helping me forget. I didn't want Mary to exist, even if for just a few instants, and I groaned against her mouth. I picked her up, never breaking the embrace, and moving back into the bedroom.

I slipped out in the middle of the night after we were done and she was asleep. I made sure she was sleeping this time before I left. Alice could never know, but that was the last time I'd call upon the favor of her bed. It had to be. She was too attached and I couldn't give her anything that she needed.

I slept on the fire escape outside the bunkroom of the lodging house. The day would be starting again soon. I wasn't ready, but I'd try to be. The uncomfortable metal dug into my skin, but in a few hours I would be waking to sell. After tonight's drinking, I didn't have a nickel to waste on a mattress, and after tonight, I needed to sleep.

I squeezed my eyes together tightly. I didn't want to remember anymore tonight and I didn't want to feel. Alcohol and sex had only helped for brief moments, and I needed dreamless sleep to take me soon. The blackness of sleep was one of the few times I escaped all of the memories. I craved it. Exhaustion finally called my body to sleep, but not before I felt a single tear slide from the corner of my eye and race down my cheek to the hard metal of the stairs upon which I slept.

Then it was black.

* * *

**A/N**: Oh Spotty, what are we ever going to do with you? Tsk, tsk. I don't like making Spot look bad, but he isn't a saint, so what can I say? *shrug* Ah well, thank you to all my wonderful reviewers!

**Lucky**: Thank you for your compliments! I try to make my fanfictions something worth reading and I am glad that you think this one is. I don't know how long I am going to make this story. I only allow one perspective per chapter so it doesn't get too confusing, but I think I know where I am going with this story now and all I can say is I hope that I can pull it off. Thanks for the review!

**Sarah**: Spot is a very hard character to write which is why I think I enjoy him so much. There are so many different takes on him, this is actually different one then my normal, but pretty close. I am really trying to keep my updates fairly regular with this story so that it won't lose momentum. Thanks for the review and the compliments!

**Pricilla2**: Glad to know that I have a content fan! This story will hopefully be completed by the new-year though it is hard to set a definite date. Darn muses! But I hope you enjoy it till the very end!

**Fox**: Oooh, I mesmerized a reader! *dance* I am honored that you think that I write this well and in an intriguing manner. I am aiming for that. I'm trying to keep it so that people _want_ to know about Mary and they _want_ to know what Spot's past is without giving away too much. It is hard with the different perspectives because I have to remember who knows what! Thanks for the review!

**Mismatch Quinn**: Yeah, it is horrible to watch someone you love basically self-destruct. I'm sorry that you have had to see that, it is painful. L But I am obviously evoking some sort of emotions in you, the reader, so that is good. Ah, man, I always have to find the positive in everything. Ha.

**Reffy**: Yah! A new reviewer! Welcome to the review board, I hope you are here to stay! (because if you don't… *threatening glare*) I'm just kidding, but I hope that you stick around and read my story. You seem to be enjoying it so I hope you do so till the end. I warn you though, I am an angst writer. Ha. Happy endings are not a big thing for me – but who knows. I have two or three possible endings in my head so we will see where my muses take me!

**Ireland O'Riely**: Ha, well, I surprised you didn't I? I kept trying to think of a way that I could return your favor of being such a great reviewer and I was looking at the canal and I was like – dude, she has all her info right here…. I'LL PUT HER IN MY STORY! So I did. *smile* This is for all the wonderful times you have been such an encouragement to me, and yes, your character will be a running part through the whole story. Doesn't that just give you the warm fuzzies? I hope that I am portraying you fairly well, I just took what I knew from the Canal and your reviews and made a character. So hopefully it was fairly close! In answer to your question, I posted chapter four and five about two or three days apart, but I don't mind you missing a chapter or two. We are all human. Ha, with my sporadic update habit, I am surprised you are so faithful to remember to review! If I do anything that is completely out of character for you – feel free to blast me. Ha. I'm glad that you liked the idea and weren't offended or anything. I worried for a bit! Take care of yourself.

Chocolate dipped Newsies and Holloween candy to all that review!


	7. Conscious

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, Mary, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: Gosh, I had a revelation, and I wrote the last few chapters. That is why this one was delayed, but I know where I am going now – and gosh, just thinking about the ending gives me goose-bumps! *squeel*

**Warning**: PG-13 (language)

**Chapter 7**: Conscious

* * *

I followed Ireland to my brother. I didn't want to ask where he was. I didn't want anyone to wonder why I needed to talk to him twice in one day. Ireland, however, was a perfect candidate. I knew she'd come after me, after him, when we split in the lodging house so I sat in the alley outside and waited. She didn't let me down. She'd lead me to Spot and then Spot would lead me to this nosy broad. Or maybe I'd find him drunk enough for him to tell me and not remember.

There were three bars where my brother went to get drunk: The Scrape, The Pike, and The Bloody River. They were far enough spread that I didn't want to guess which one he went to and then end up walking back and forth till I found him. He didn't have a favorite. There was no method to this madness. So I followed Ireland.

I wanted to know where my bastard half-brother was for two reasons. First: I needed to find that stupid broad before she caused any more trouble. Second: I needed to make sure Spot didn't get his drunk-ass in trouble again. His worst decisions always came when he was drinking. I needed to make sure he didn't come back to the lodging house, three sheets to the wind, and yelling nonsense.

The look on Ireland's face told all when she left the docks: The Scrape. She hated all of the bars, but she hated The Scrape the most. The Scrape meant he was serious about getting drunk. The Scrape meant he would be mean and unreasonable, and of all the people most likely to bother him while drinking, it was Ireland. Even though she could be a pushover, Ireland pulled herself up by her bootstraps when needed and give a try, but Ireland was a bit of a coward. She was scared of the The Scrape. She was scared of Spot. What's worse is she showed it. You never let stuff like that show if you are going to make it on the streets.

She didn't see me. I followed her from the lodging house, to the docks, to The Scrape and she didn't see me. I'd mastered the art of following others and tonight it was paying me off in spades. Ireland paused before she entered the building and I melted into one of the shadows across the street.

I folded my lanky frame against that wall and waited. Time passed and people did as well. Few noticed me and the ones who did didn't bother me. That's how I wanted it. My "cheese it" expression, as Jack called it, obviously did its work. I was left alone.

Finally, Ireland came out. She looked close to tears, and Spot didn't follow her. Yet again she had lost the battle that she had fought with him many times. I never fought it because I knew the outcome. He wouldn't stop and there was no point in pushing the issue. He was like me in that sense. The more you pushed him to stop, the more likely he was to keep going. Ireland didn't understand that.

Ireland had made quick strides and was out of sights in seconds. It was just near six. The streets were quiet here. Most of the traffic didn't start till later in these parts. However there were always the few renegade souls that wandered this bit: the drunks, the whores, the orphans that didn't have mothers to call them home, and even a few newsies. No one I recognized today, but that was fine by me.

I'd been perched against the front wall on the building across from The Scrape near two hours when Spot finally came out. He looked awful. The normal tan of his face was gone and the stark whiteness made me cringe. He was wasted. I wondered how many shots he had taken that night at the bar and if he'd take anymore before the night was out. There were more bars in Brooklyn. There were more places to forget. He'd kill himself drinking before he heard someone say stop. This time these drinks were my fault. I never should have brought up Mary.

The sun was down and the ruder crowd was emerging. Why was I even here? I had to remind myself because I hated dealing with drunks. I was there for damage control. I was there to clean up after Spot's wake of self-destruction. Protecting Spot and protecting me was the same thing. It came in the same breath. It was funny how sharing blood did that.

The way of the streets was a funny thing. You had to be a tough, as the next kids or else nobody would respect you. You had to fight to the last or be fast enough to outrun whatever trouble you'd gotten yourself into. Family ties might have been strong, but not always strong enough for you to risk your neck. Through the tough guy façade though – you always had to have hope. At least a little bit of it or else you were worse off than you were if you couldn't fight.

That's why Jack made it so far.

Manhattan's Cowboy had what it took. He had dreams and hope, but he also had brawn and brains enough to use them. Jack was unattached to anything unnecessary and glued to the idea of something more. He'd make it far someday. We all knew it, respected it, and envied it on some level.

I wondered what Jack was doing now. He'd been working hard to save money for the ticket to Santa Fe. The girl he had been with at the rally had run off or married higher or some shit and Kelly was planning to run at the first chance he got. I can't say I blame him, I would run if I ever had the chance.

Spot was all the way at the end of the street and turning the corner.

I unfolded my lanky frame from the wall. My muscles cracked from being broken from their frozen position. I paid them no attention. I followed my half-brother's blundered steps and cringed. I shouldn't have brought Mary up to Spot. I should have left well enough alone and not tried to find that pathetic look of pain he wore at the mention of Mary. It's just that _whore_ had asked so many fucking question. It would have come up if she kept asking around the group.

She was to blame, too. Perhaps not as much as I was, but the problem was I was always here. Always. I was the one that watched Spot's back and made sure he didn't make an ass of himself in front of his boys. I was the one that kept him away when he was drunk and agitated him enough to scare boys when he was sober. That was me. Not this dame who bedded him whenever it was convenient. I'm the one that cleaned up her mess – the bitch.

It looked like he was going to the lodging house.

Damn. I couldn't let him go there right now. The boys couldn't see him like this, and I'd have to follow him potentially for days to find the question asking broad. My mind raced in ways to keep him from entering. I had my old standbys, but sometimes the moment required creativity. He almost reached the street that held our respective lodging when he changed direction.

Following at night took a different kind of finesse than following during the day. There were fewer crowds to hide in and dodge between, but at the same there were fewer crowds to hide in and go about unnoticed. The distance required was greater and there were several times I thought I may lose him at a corner, but I always found him. Where ever he was going I knew that I would have to be there, too.

The trademark cane was tucked in his suspender and gray cap made him distinctive. He also swaggered instead of walked, even sober, his walk was distinctive. Now he moved like he was just trying to remember how to walk..

Damn liquor.

Damn me.

If I hadn't talked to him about Mary none of this would have happened. Hell – I'm the reason he even started it off with her. If I hadn't challenged him he never would have been doing this. Why had I told him that he couldn't win her over? I didn't think he would even try. It was a rigged bet, dammit. He wasn't supposed to try. Damn it all to hell – she was a minister's daughter! He wasn't supposed to actually make her fall in love with him. _He_ wasn't actually supposed to fall in love with _her_. The whole thing was fucked up.

I could still see him when she had first left him; he didn't speak for days. He'd sell and disappear to different ways of drowning himself. I'd made up stories to cover his ass, conferences with Manhattan, a meeting in Queens, or out fucking some girl from the Upper East Side. I don't remember half of them, but the worked at the time.

At some level, everyone knew Spot's dame had left him. Few knew the devastating affect it had, and even fewer needed to know. Circumstances and shame made the topic taboo. I'd even known girls to be run off from the lodging house for having Mary's name.

I knew everything.

Spot turned into a building and I refocused. My steps hurried as I made a line across the street to the door where Spot had entered. Who the hell lived here? It was nicer than the lodging house, but it was an apartment. This wasn't the house of an upper class broad. If this living space was one in the same with the girl who bought me lunch, maybe she wasn't as fancy as she let on. I followed closely, but silently. Always just of sight, peering around bannisters and avowing squeaky steps, I kept close now.

Spot made it to the floor he wanted and went on. I stayed huddled on the stairs for six breaths before creeping up and peering around the edge. Spot wasn't there. He'd obviously make it to the end of the hall and turned the corner. I swore under my breath. I was going to lose him.

I slunk down the narrow hallway. A sharp pounding of flesh against wood echoed through the cavernous space. I pressed back into a door frame, but no storming bull came storming down upon me. I kept going and snuck my eyes around the corner at the end just in time to see Spot forcibly enter an apartment. A sharp slam of the door came immediately afterwards. I tiptoed to the door and pressed my ear against it carefully, listening for something, anything that may sound like it needed intervention. Even in the quiet of the night – I couldn't hear much. What I could hear was too muffled to understand. One of the voices was distinctly my half-brother – the other was soft and female. Spot wasn't happy. I couldn't tell if the voice was that of the girl from lunch or not.

There weren't a lot of words. My hand gripped the door knob. I'd barged in places before and I would do it again, but I heard nothing. I didn't hear anything smash or break. I didn't hear crying. In fact it was quiet for so long that I almost believed that he'd killed her in one move so swift there was no time for noise. Then there was a moan and a shuffling of feet and my stomach felt sick. He was going to fuck her. I didn't need to know more.

After this point, Spot was responsible for himself. I'd done what I'd come to do. He was out of trouble for a time now, and I now knew this address. I'd come back here and see what I could learn. There was a chance it was nothing. There was a chance that this was some other girl than the one I met earlier today, but for now it was all I had.

So I left. I wasn't going to wait for him to be done fucking her to get a good night's sleep. I knew how he operated. So I headed back to the lodging house. My mind was resolved, however, to return to this apartment as soon as my morning edition was sold. I knew how to get there, it was a familiar neighborhood. If this was the same girl that had Spot all bent of shape all day, then she needed a fair warning. Spot wouldn't tell her anything worthwhile. I had to be the one to make sure this conversation happened..

She needed to be instructed in the ways of the Brooklyn leader or else bad things could happen. Bad things that were partially my fault since my big mouth had to get Spot's reacton.

Damn me and my sainted conscious. Damn me straight to hell.

* * *

**A/N**: I love how bitter Snaps is.

**Ireland O'Reily**: Snaps kind of bad mouthed you here in this chapter a bit – but she is all talk. Don't mind her. Ah, my friend, you are far too flattering. Though I am very partial to this story, you are far too flattering. It isn't _that_ good. Yeah, Mary did mess him up – but there is a reason behind it and I know what it is. *sticks out tongue* Don't you just hate how the authors know all? *grin* Well, I promise not to keep you waiting to find out about it for too long.

**JustDuck**: Oooh! A new fan! *smile* Wow, you read through **Frostbitten**? Gosh, you _are_ bored. Ha. That story is up for major revisions hopefully sometime after Christmas, but I am glad that you enjoyed it! I hope you are well by now, I have mono so that sucks, and I know what it is like to just feel like poo. Well, thanks for the review and I hope to see more of them. -_^

Review you punks! It is great motivation for the muses! Honest! It is! Really! See look, they are begging for reviews! *pictures of muses on hands and knees begging* Yeah, that's what I thought….


	8. Beginnings

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, Mary, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: Whoa buddies I just have a great feeling about this story.

**Warning**: PG (sexuality, implied adult situations, and mild language.)

**Chapter 8**: Beginnings

* * *

He was gone before I woke this time. It wasn't a surprise, but it still hurt. My heart still pounded in my chest as I imagined the feel of his callused hands sliding over my body. It made me blush. There was no time for such thoughts. Two nights in a row I had done the thing I promised never to do again every time it happened. I had enough sins piled upon my head without having to remember all of the fornication committed within these walls.

The conflict between my moral compass and my physical wants raged inside of me. It made me irritable. The woman above me pounded out a tune on her out of tune piano, and I thought wicked thoughts of burning that wretched musical contraption. I had learned enough of the basics of the keyboard in my education so I knew enough to hear all of the blundering mistakes that were only magnified by the off pitch keys. Dear goodness that woman needed to learn how to play or I was going to throw that instrument out of the window myself! Frustrated, I yanked the brush through my tangled hair and nearly pulled all of the hair off of my head.

I twisted my hair back from my face harshly. I jammed the hard wire pins against the soft skin of my scalp and ignored the sensations of pain that jarred through me. What little self-control I had over my emotions. I should be able to tell him no. I should be able to simply turn down his passionate embraces and move along. Goodness knows what restitution I would have to give for these transgressions. Confessional was always so embarrassing after Spot's visits.

It was later than I normally slept. Luckily it was a Saturday and I didn't have need to go to my job at a lady's clothing boutique. After my dressing and grooming rituals were completed I made my way into the kitchen area of my small tenement apartment. The kitchen was also my dining and entertaining room. The only other room I had was my bedroom. It was small, but not cramped. It fit my needs. I may not have been a lady of affluence but I was far from destitute.

A hard knock on my door brought me back to the present. Who could it possibly be? Was it Spot?

"Who's there?"

No answer, but another knock.

I fidgeted with the lace collar of my blouse. It felt tight on my neck. I swallowed uneasily. I was not expecting company. Standing, I smoothed my skirt and tentatively walked to the door. My fingers wrapped around the handle and turned slowly. I cracked open the door and peeked out.

It was not Spot. Instead a strangely familiar face stood on the other side. It was the girl from yesterday at the diner. Her face was masked with the same smirk, shoulders in the same lazily slouched positions, and those eyes…. How had she found me? She tucked her tongue into her cheek and shoved her hands into her pants pockets. I looked up at her in uncertainty of what I was to do.

"We need to talk." She said.

"Excuse me?"

"We needs to talk. Can I come in?"

She was already pushing her way inside before I answered. My hands unconsciously tighten on the door handle, not wanting her to enter, but unable to stop her. She is inside and looking around before I have time to say or do anything to stop her. It feels like last night all over again.

"I need to go to work." I said.

"It's Saturday. Anywhere a priss like ya works is closed."

My jaw dropped. Who was she to call me a priss?

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ya probably work in a shop for ladies. I can tell by ya hands and tha way ya talk and carry yaself. Ya don't work in a factory, ya too educated for that, and all the lady shops is closed on Saturday."

She chuckled. I can only imagine from the expression on my face.

"Well I never! Leave, leave now!"

I opened the door wide and waved my arm in the direction of the exit. I didn't have the time, desire, or patience for this treatment today.

"Look – I didn't mean to hurt ya feelings. I ain't here cause I want to be. I'se here cause there's some things ya need to know about Spot."

Everything inside of me screamed to say no. It wasn't a good idea to talk to her about Spot. In fact it was the opposite. After all – talking to her about Spot had gotten me in a whole heap of trouble with him last night. It was a deadly idea, a bad idea, the kind of idea that made me bite my lip in hesitation and I knew she sensed it.

"I owes it to ya for the lunch."

There was a quirk of humor in her lips when she said that. Those dark eyes were unmoving from my face. She was so much taller than I. Her physical prowess intimidated me. There was no way I would be able to remove her from my apartment with force by myself and it was fairly clear she had no plans to leave. I sighed in defeat and shut the door. She smirked.

"How did you find me?" I said, curious.

"I followed ol' Spotty last night. The dirty boots helped a bit."

She pointed to the wooden floor beneath us and sure enough there were tracks where Spot's large feet had been the night before. An awkward pause filled the air.

"Ya want me to sit or what?" she impatiently crossed her arms across her chest.

"Oh. Here. Please sit." I gestured to what functioned as my eating table and where I had guests sit to share tea.

It was a small seating arrangement around a very small round table, but all four chairs matched and I was proud of it. At the direction the girl's lips quirked up slightly on the corners and I felt a twinge of primal fear leap into my breast. There was something so basal about this girl and her mannerisms; something so blunt, so plain, and so familiar. It was unnerving.

"Fine. Guess I should introduce." She spat in the palm of her hand and extended it to me. "The name's Snaps."

I looked at the soiled mitt with a blank scandal and the girl chuckled. Her eyes twinkled with a light of strange victorious merriment. Something about her eyes was so familiar.

"I figured a lady like yaself wouldn't stoop ta such a custom as shaking hands." She wiped off the offending hand on the leg of her equally filthy trouser leg. "Let's try again." She didn't extend her hand her hand to me at all this time for which I was thankful. "The name's Snaps."

"Alice." I said and motioned politely to the chairs.

We sat. Snaps immediately rocked back on two legs of the chair like she had in the diner, hands tucked behind her head for support. My eyes darted towards the callused ink-stained hands and recalled the spitting incident. Whatever custom of greeting it was – it was foreign and disgusting to me. Snaps smirked again as she looked around my humble home. My pride ruffled. I may not have had much, but what I had was fine and I made the best of it. Who was this girl to act so superior to me?

"Alice." She said my name. The way she said it felt more like she was testing it, feeling it come across her tongue and out of her lips. "What a name. A _real_ name. How'd Spotty land himself a dame with class?"

Whatever this girl had to say had better make up for her needling me in the most intimate of ways. My back was rigged as I sat at the edge of my seat. I hoped my stiff posture would help her understand my contempt for her insults. Her eyebrow quirked. She landed the chair back on all four legs with a crash. That same irritating smirk pulled at her expression.

"Please, if all you are going to do it insult me and smirk I suggest you leave and cease to waste both of our times, Miss. Snaps."

I had barely finished my sentence before a burst of surprised laughter cut me off. The girl howled with a deep laugh that threw me off guard. It was the most outward burst of emotion I had seen from the self-confident and cocky girl.

"Miss. Snaps? Lady, yous gotta be kidding me." She said around laughs. "I ain't a hoity-toity dame like yous." She took a deep breath in attempt to still her laughter. "The name's Snaps. No miss. Just Snaps. Simple as that."

The laughter may have subsided, but her eyes still glistening with amusement. I suppose that is what I get for wasting manners on those who don't understand them.

"Well then, _Snaps_, if you are quite through with your laughter – would you mind explaining yourself?"

I tried to remain as calm and refined as I possibly could under the awkwardness of the situation A single eyebrow quirked up sarcastically though nothing else in her whole body moved.

"You want to know about Spot, right?"

A chill ran down my spine at the question. The laughter was gone. Her words thrummed through my body. Her mood was a rapid change which surprised me. My mouth grew dry and all I could do was nod as I looked into her penetrating eyes.

"Now if I tell ya this, you ain't ever going ta bring it up or tell nobody I said any of this. Especially Spot. We never talked. We never met. All right?"

It was so serious it could have been comical, but it wasn't. My mind rushed and whirred over the complications that would make my simple questions require such a vow. I'd thought the answers would be simple. Clearly I'd been mistaken. I nodded dumbly once more.

I was petrified as the strange girl leant forward in her chair. She moved smoothly – each motion was fluid and purposeful. It wasn't a parlor room grace, but the control of someone who knew exactly how to use their body. She bent over the table and looked me in the eyes. Her face was less than a few inches from my face. Her long messy braid of dark hair fell over her shoulder and nearly touched the table where her grubby hands were pressed palm down. My breath caught in my throat at her proximity.

"Swear it." It wasn't an option, that was clear, but I couldn't find my voice. "Swear it!" She hit one of her hands on the table.

"I swear it." I said.

My words came out in a rush of air. I answered hurriedly in hopes she would withdraw and give me some sense of security. Having her so close sent my system reeling in a spiral of tension.

I found I feared her for the same reasons that I feared Spot. There was something very desperate about them, so feral and primal, that it was terrifying. Their sudden changes of mood and seeming control over every situation were startling and unnerving.

She perused my face for a few moments before relaxing back into my chair. Her arms crossed over her chest with her tongue in cheek and overly confident smirk playing on her lips. It was like she hadn't just threatened me. It was like we were old friends. My head spun.

"I ain't doing this just for yous."

"Then who are you doing it for – yourself?"

"I'se doing it for Spot."

My curiosity was piqued. My body hummed. This girl kept me on edge, but it was clear she didn't want me to think she was doing me any favor. Her bluntness was a startling contrast from yesterday's cryptic answers and maze like responses.

"Ya gotta understand a couple things about Spot." She said. "First thing is he is a kinda leader to the group we're in. I'se seen him beat kids bloody who challenge his authority. He's the meanest sonofabitch in Brooklyn."

Her words flashed me back to last night. The glint of his cane overhead, me on the floor only feet away from where I sat, and the overwhelming panic washed over me again for an instant. Snaps paused. I was not sure if it is was because she sensed the ice that washed through my system or to allow me to process what she just said. Either way, she was not in any hurry to tell me everything all at once and that was apparent. She was obviously weighing her words as well as her sensing the timing of the conversation for the full effect. During this pregnant pause she stared at me until I began to squirm uncomfortably in my seat. The smirk on her face said that not only was she enjoying my discomfort but that a secret was on its way.

"The other thing about Spot is that he's me brother." She said.

It was like being hit by lightning. All of the similarities which I had noticed earlier between the two of them now made sense. I attempted to process all of the things which I had noted were similar but stopped short. The expression on her face told me that she wasn't telling me this as a favor but as a validation that the stories she was to tell me were true. From the look on her face she was excruciatingly serious. Being a newsie she was a master of weaving stories to make them work for her – but somehow the trust she gave me in bestowing her familial relation to Spot let me know that every bit of what I was about to hear would be true.

This was going to be one story I would never forget.

* * *

**A/N**: Ha, I'm evil. CLIFFHANGER! Yeah buddy, that's right. I found a few of my reviewers but I still am missing some of them! I think they all died, or maybe they just hate my story. *tears*

**Lucky**: You will find out about Spot and Mary in the next chapter – a good hunk of it. I have been so darn cryptic up till now I figure what the heck! Yeah, so I have you on needles and pins now waiting for the "past." That is sound weird. Okay, I'm done. Thanks for the still reading, I felt that everyone had stopped. *tears*

**Ireland O'Reily**: Angst thrillers, ha. Maybe not thrillers, but definitely angst. I am going to write a disgustingly happy fiction and then what are you going to do? (You: uhh… be disgustingly happy?) RIGHT! Okay that was dumb, anyway, this is going to be a tearjerker, I already know. *eg* I just hope that it is all worth the wait. I lub you to pieces. *hugs and stuff*

**Umm…**: So glad that I didn't lose you! Ha! You can have Spot, he is too moody for me. I love writing him but I could never be in a relationship with him. Ha. I'm a dork, talking like there is a possibility that I actually _might_ have a chance to have one. HA! I'm shutting up now….

**Thistle**: Snaps is a bit annoying – but she is fun to write. Basically she is a female version of her half-brother, with a few different traits. Ha. Okay if that made any sense at all, you get an award. I'll finish this story come hell or high water… or *sniff* no reviews…. But I'll do it! I'll do it if it is the last thing I do! How cliché….

**Mismatch Quinn**: Next chapter and you will know a lot. Just you wait. *smiles* I'm excited for the next chapter I really am. You won't know it all, but you will get _a lot_ of it.

As always, much love to all those have reviewed. Left over (but not stale) Halloween candy and pumpkin pie to all! Candy corn! Yay! This can all be yours if you just review!


	9. Recollections

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, Mary, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me

**A/N**: This chapter is the first instance where it isn't in first person anymore. It actually changes to third person narrative a bit into it and then back to first person. I feel that it is pretty obvious where it changes because, for one, Snaps isn't swearing right and left in the thought pattern. Ha. Also I divided the sections so that there is a visual break between parts.

**Warning**: PG-13 (strong language and sexuality)

**Chapter 9**: Recollections

* * *

This was such a load of shit, pure and total horse shit. What the hell was I doing in some apartment with a bitch that just last night had made my brother look like a drunken jackass? I knew the answer, but I didn't like it. I didn't like it because it meant I'd made a mistake and I hated cleaning up messes. This was for her good, for my half-brother's good, and for the good of Brooklyn overall. Brooklyn needed Spot the same way Spot needed Brooklyn and I wasn't going to let some high-class whore butcher that with her nosy questions.

Spot would be more pissed than a horse stung by a hornet if he knew that I was here. Hell, he'd been pissed just because I had talked to the broad yesterday. He'd been pissed enough to go and get drunk off his ass. I wasn't going to see that happen again if I could help it, at least not because of me and not because of this dumb hussy.

She was looking at me with that little mouth hanging open like the dead fish on the wharves. That was something I wagered was against proper etiquette. Hell – this Alice girl looked like she would be a model on the front of a hoity-toity fashion magazine. I could tell she'd had some finishing school and had been taught to be a lady ever since she could blink those big brown eyes. Everything about her spoke of an upper class breeding, and I wondered how in the hell Spot had gotten himself in with this broad.

She looked like my relation to Spot was such a fucking revelation. I didn't bother going into the telling her the half-brother shit. She didn't want to hear it and I didn't want to tell it. I wasn't here to give her our genealogy. If I told her that and the story behind it though, with our mother being a whore, she'd probably faint right out of her damn chair.

"Yous all right?" I asked.

All the color had left her face and I wanted to make sure she hadn't fainted already and just not fallen out of her chair yet.

"Yes. Yes, of course I'm fine." She said.

She snapped right out of the hazy stupor she created and closed that little mouth with a snap. Already her hands were folded back primly into her lap. Her legs crossed at the ankles like a blushing virgin. What a load of shit. I was the only virgin in the room. I found it funny that she wasn't a virgin yet profanity made her blush. What a high class. She'd probably never had to be outside without shoes. With fair skin like that you knew that she hadn't gone out more than to go to a picnic or one of those high fangled tea parties.

"All right, before I start I want ta remind yous that if I'se here about ya asking any more damn questions or tell any of this ta _anyone_ Is'll make it so yous'll wish ya weren't born."

I meant every damn word and her reaction was priceless. I swear her little face drained three shades of color.

"I understand."

It was like she'd never been threatened before. Maybe she hadn't, but Spot liked threats, though, so I didn't figure I was her first. I smirked with satisfaction regardless. First threat or not – I'd scared the shit out of her with it. What a good submissive little girl, maybe _that_ was why Spot liked her in bed.

"Good." I said.

I looked up at the ceiling of her apartment to collect my thoughts. Though I had lived the story – I had to arrange it in my thoughts. It'd been awhile since I'd told it straight through.

In the back of my mind something whispered to me that this was one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

**. : ^_^ : .**

The streets of New York were already bustling though the hour was only a few past dawn. Azure skies of a promising spring hung above them laced with cotton candy clouds and a glittering golden sun. If you could judge a day by appearance – today looked very promising. Members many social classes strolled the streets of Brooklyn as the cries of newsies and clopping of horse's hoofs echoed against the towering brick edifices. The mass of humanity moved about the passages and byways established by the city and routine. There was little out of the ordinary. The whores mingled with the business men as both went to their own respective work. Street vendors sold their wares, bums begged for a crust of bread, and a man on the street corner called out against the devil and called for the saving of the souls of the damned.

A curious pair stood watching the whole scene. Both were folded against the brick surface with a cool ease that spoke of their obvious hidden mirth to the fat man on the soapbox. They kept a careful distance from the preaching, not wanting to be sold salvation, but close enough that they could exchange scathing reviews to each other. The girl's wide dark eyes glistened as she looked at the bunch of other church parishioners standing around the shouting man. Some handed out tracts and other handed food. The crowd for those holding food was far more substantial than those holding the paper pamphlets. Some were young. Most were old. However there was one fairly pretty little thing that the girl took notice of readily and turned to the boy beside her on her left.

"How do ya like the dame over there, Conlon?" She turned her head towards him casually. Both arms were folded neatly across her chest.

"Which one?" The gray newsboy cap shaded his cerulean blue eyes as he leant upon his cane as much as the wall.

"The pretty one." She indicated with her words and a short swift jerk of her head. "The one with the white thing on her head."

"I'se seen better." He scoffed with a superior air and jingled some change in his pocket. "We'se need to buy some more papes. There's plenty of time to sell some more."

"Damn the papes." The girl said. "Ya never wanna do nothing but work, Spotty."

"Ya gotta work to eat, Snaps."

"Ya got enough money to eat for a week. All work and no play makes Spot a dull boy."

She watched her half-brother casually in wait for a response. Her eyes followed his as he caught sight of a voluptuous young woman in a scandalous dress walk by the group of street preachers. A smirk instantly plastered itself on her face. She knew Spot's habit of not taking harlots better than anyone, but his sexual hunger didn't escape her. It was clear that he needed to get laid.

"Anyways - looks to me that yous ain't interested in food at all."

The sly comment brought his attention to the girl at his side. He swiveled his head. Blue diamond slits stared her down menacingly. Snaps didn't recoil. She didn't even flinch. She was used to her brother's tactics. Instead she looked at him as lazily as a large cat and smirked satisfactorily. His tightly wound reaction just proved her point.

"What's that supposed ta mean?"

He challenged and she looked at him innocently. They both knew that she had gotten the first reaction. He forcibly relaxed himself. She nodded her head towards the last of the harlot's vibrant colored dress as it disappeared into the swirling mass of more muted, conservative colors.

"How longs it been since ya had a good, hard lay?"

"This question is coming from a virgin."

Spot scoffed at her abstinence though it was not something of which he disapproved. He had enough to worry about without keeping track of his sister's romantic life. Besides, who would be stupid enough to fuck Brooklyn's sister on a whim?

"So it has been a _long_ time. What's the matter, Spotty? Can't get anyone to say 'yes'?"

Snaps quirked an eyebrow as she returned the jab. It was a good guess that he hadn't felt the warmth of a woman since he had ended his relationship with Ireland a few months earlier. Spot's clear eyes roamed the streets though Snaps statement had been a little too close for comfort.

"I can get whoever I want."

His eyes landed on the girl Snaps had pointed out among the street missionaries. Her brown hair was pulled back modestly under a white cap, but a few curls had escaped around her heart shaped face. She was plain, that was to be sure, but she wasn't ugly. Even from where he was standing he could see her large eyes wide with innocence and he smirked. She probably hadn't even been alone with a man – let alone been touched by one. Snaps followed his gaze again and saw his smirk. The wheels in her head began to turn rapidly.

"I bet ya couldn't lay _her_." She pointed with her eyes and Spot's brow furrowed in question.

"What?"

Spot unfolded from his place on the wall. This way he stood taller than his half-sister who remained comfortably reclined on the bricks. Her gaze was as relaxed as her posture. Unlike the majority of the other newsies under him – Snaps had never developed a healthy fear of her leader. Perhaps this was due to the fact that she'd known him before his name meant anything to the group of ruffians. Even now as he stared down at her she remained cool and collected.

"I bet that you can't get the preaching broad in the sack before the trees in Central Park start changing their colors."

Spot regarded his sister for a moment. She looked back at him openly, tongue tucked into her cheek. Then he turned his focus to the girl across the street from them. Her face was turned into a kind smile as she handed out the tracts in her hand. A girl with virtue would undoubtedly be a different challenge from the looser girl he seduced, but there was an appeal in this challenge he didn't understand. Perhaps it was the desire to attain the unattainable or simply his physical hunger which motivated his decision; whatever it was he turned back to his half-sister with his face twisted in a knowing smirk.

"What are the odds?"

He narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. It wasn't a dramatic gesture, but enough to let her know that he was serious about the proposition. Inside she felt the surge of victory already. Her brother didn't stand a chance.

"If I win, yous'll pay my board for a year. If yous win, I'sell pay yours."

She leaned one shoulder against the wall so she was turned towards him more. Digging into her pocket she fished out a cigarette. In a deft move she lit a match against the bricks and began to light her smoke. Spot reached out and pulled the offending stick from her lips before she could complete the lighting task.

"Girls shouldn't smoke." He said and pocketed the unlit fag.

She sent him a murderous glare before digging out yet another cigarette. Swiftly she lit it before he could take it away. Holding it firmly between two fingers she kept him from procuring it as he had the previous. It was his turn to send her a murderous glare.

"Well Conlon, ya up for it? I bet ya that ya can't bed the mission broad."

She tipped her head towards the group and Spot looked through the crowd towards the girl. For the briefest instant an overwhelming chance of failure washed over him. The weight was crushing. He pushed the self-doubt to the side quickly. He had no time for it. It wasn't quickly enough for Snaps not the noticed. His hesitation was well noted by his half-sister.

"Whatsa matter Spotty? Don't think ya can do it?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him mockingly. His head spun back towards her. Relative or not – he was her leader and he deserved some respect. Someday he would teach it to her, but not today, not right now. Right now he had a decision to make. So in his traditional nature of being unable to back down from a challenge – Spot made his choice.

"Ya got yaself a bet."

He spat in his caneless hand and extended it to her. She returned the gesture and clasped his hand firm in her own. Already she wore a victorious smirk and he sent her a warning glare with his penetrating eyes. Snaps didn't even flinch. She had won this round.

Pulling back his hand he wiped it unconsciously on his pants and pulled his hat off of his head. Running his fingers through the dirty hair a few times before pulling the cap low over his eyes – he made she he was as presentable as possible. With that Spot made his way through the throng of people which filled the New York street to the evangelistic crowd. The entire time his mind was focused on his prize. As he got closer to his target noted more clearly the features of her face.

She _was_ plain. There was nothing outstanding about her. She did nothing to help herself cosmetically like the girls he normally took. Her eyes were wide and brown which was nothing too astounding. Her hair was brown too with an under-cast shadow of red that shone in the light of the morning sky. Most of it was covered with her white cap to modestly conceal it from open viewing. The round cheeks were flushed prettily in the warm spring day, and Spot could see a few freckles across the bridge of her upturned nose as he stood before her.

"Pardon me, miss." Spot took off his hat respectfully and she looked at him openly but without curiosity.

"Could I have one'a those?" Spot indicated with his eyes to the pamphlets that she held in her hands.

Her hands were small and delicate, but the looked like they had seen hard work. Was she a scullery maid or a factory worker? Her eyes were wide with hope and life as if she were ready to conquer all of Brooklyn, possibly all of New York, for her cause. No factory worker could have that much hope. But if she were a maid how had she managed to take time off for such things as street evangelizing?

"Oh." Her small cupid bow mouth formed a perfect circle and she looked down at her hands and then readily extended to him two sheets of paper. "Of course." She smiled warmly, and Spot smiled in return.

It was one of his rakishly wry grins that he reserved only for occasions such as this. This was a smile he knew made most girls swoon. However her expression didn't change a bit. Could it be possible she was so naïve that she didn't even realize that he was flirting with her? This was a twist he wasn't accustoming to and he leant on his cane and looked briefly at the pamphlets. One was on how to become "saved," the other was an advertisement for a church.

"When's the next service?" Spot asked.

He drowned out the sound of the shouting preacher and the bustle of the street. It was his habit to do this. Anyone who lived in New York long enough learned how to do this with some mark of efficiency.

"We are having a prayer meeting this Saturday." She answered informatively.

She seemed genuinely excited at the prospect of a new convert. Her voice was strong enough to be heard but he could tell that she was forcing it to be so. The natural tone of her voice would be much softer. Also her words weren't inflected with the local accent, but he couldn't place the intonation of her speech.

"It will be at 5:00 at this address." She pointed to the flyer in his hand that directed him to the church.

Since she lacked an accent – it could be that she'd had private education. Her nature was much more demure than that of most on the streets. Was she of a higher society than his?

"Will yous be there?" Spot asked.

He moved in a step closer. He dropped his tone to a more seductive note due to his closer proximity. The girl wasn't even phased by it. Her face lit in a cheery smile.

"Of course. I'm always there when the church is open." She seemed entirely oblivious to his blatant flirting and Spot was growing slightly frustrated.

"Are ya now?" Spot lifting a single eyebrow. Now _that_ was an interesting fact "Could I have your name? I'd like to know what to call ya when I see ya at the church this Saturday."

"Mary." she said. "And yours?"

"Ya can call me Spot." He gave her another heartbreaking grin. She reciprocated, however her smile was much more innocent in intention than his.

The nickname didn't seem to puzzle her in the slightest. Her lack of response made Spot believe that she had come across others like him. Could she be of some breeding and still understand the need for nicknames in the street?

"Then I will see you this Saturday, brother Spot." She said and Spot replaced his gray cap on his head.

"And Is'll see ya then too, sister Mary." He said, carefully imitating her farewell.

With a nod of his head he turned on his heel and melting into the crowd. Snaps was still standing on the wall watching him and he could tell she was smirking. Instead of returning to her side he went towards the distribution office. Selling a few papers would be a good way to clear his head. Stuffing the pamphlets he'd gotten from Mary into his pockets he exhaled heavily.

Somehow he knew this wasn't going to be easy as he would want it to be.

**. : ^_^ : .**

I could be out on the streets having a good time before the afternoon edition came up for sale, but no. I was unloading all this shit about a bitch who fucked with my smartass half-brother to an ungrateful bitch who fucked up my half-brother. Somehow in all of that _I _felt guilty.

"What happened next?" Alice asked.

One good thing about being a newsie was that I was one hell of a storyteller. Her question was appreciated, all breathless and curious, but it annoyed me. Interruptions annoyed me. Interruptions like taking an entire day off selling to talk to an idiot broad all the things she needed to know to leave my half-brother alone.

"Ya got anything ta eat around here?"

"Of course."

What a regular lady; a hostess – born and bred. In a few moments I had a glass of warm milk in front of me with some thick crusted bread on a plate. It wasn't exactly a great meal, but it was something. I'd gotten one hell of a good free meal off of her yesterday anyway. With a deep drink off of my glass I relaxed back against the chair again. I took my time biting into the bread and chewed it slowly. Swallowing in an exaggerated fashion – I looked at her lazily. She had a plate with the same fare as I had, but she wasn't eating like me. What a lady.

"So ya want ta know what happened next?"

I asked even though I knew the answer. She nodded. I smirked. The broad was practically begging. As much as I enjoyed this position of temporary power, I knew that I had to tell the rest of the story, and that was not something I looked forward to doing. It didn't get prettier. I focused my thoughts, and then according to Spot's ramblings, my spying, and my genius story telling abilities I began to tell more of the story.

I couldn't help but think if newspaper printed bits of this story that the papes would be a hell of a lot easier to sell.

* * *

**A/N**: *cheers* Yeah! Some of the Spot/Mary mystery has been unraveled. *dance* Yay! Happy time! This chapter was almost… fluffy! *collective gasp* Man I am hyper.

**Fox**: Oooh, vacation. Now that is a good excuse! Ha. It's okay, I don't hate you or anything JUST DON'T LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN! Alice is an annoying character for me to write, actually a lot of these characters are just annoying, but you know, I don't mind. Ha. Did you have a good time on your trip? Where did you go? Thanks for the review!

**Ireland O'Riely**: I love you, you know that? You always review so faithfully and they are always the best reviews I get! You're so funny! Ha. Woo hoo for the award for angst! I would like to thank my mother and my father because without them – I wouldn't be here today. No seriously, I wouldn't. HA. I'm actually getting over my **Blind Spot** funk and have written a bit on a new chapter for it! *gasp* I know, I know, I haven't updated since February! AGH! I'm so bad….

**Thistle**: Well, not the whole story, but a good little snip of it! I tried not to take too long, but I _love_ cliffhangers. Just ask Ireland. Ha. Well I'll try and have my next update up as soon as possible! Thanks for the review love!

**Angelfish7**: Well honey, you got to hear some of the story! Here is some more candy-corn for reviewing and there is more where that


	10. Visits

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, the Lindharts, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: So...where ya been for two years? Yeah. I know, I know….

**Warning**: PG (mild language)

**Chapter 10**: Visitation

* * *

I didn't sell papers today. I didn't felt like it. Maybe I would sell them this afternoon, but probably not. My head was still foggy from the uninhibited binge of hard whisky. I'd lost count of the shots after ten. At one point I would have been able to stomach more than that and still be fine, but I'd been dry for too long.

A large part of my not selling, however, had nothing to do with the drinking. Most of it had to do with the pure idea that I didn't want to sell. At one point in time, I had lived to sell, thriving on the competition and turning it into my own kind of art. If I didn't need the money or the prestige of selling, I wouldn't sell anymore. Like so much in this routine I called life, selling papers bored me, but it was mandatory. Much like breathing, it was forced, expected, and I would die without it.

The streets were crowded today. A few children that didn't have to work played a game of tag out in the fresh air and warm sunshine, darting among the people, carts, and horses. Street vendors wielded their wares along the cobblestones, attempting to entice those with a little extra change in their pockets to make a purchase. A few horse drawn carriages attempted to make their way though the neighborhood, finding it difficult on such crowded streets. Women with their shopping lists were flitting from vendor to vendor, looking for the best price as well as what they needed to keep their house in order.

Pushing through the crowds of people, I found it hard to go unnoticed. I had a habit of attracting attention to myself. If I really wanted to, I could melt into the crowd, but it took effort. I'd had to outrun the bulls and bullies enough to know how to become invisible, but being noticed was second nature. I walked tall and people noticed. Some of the younger women whispered to each other behind their hands, they knew who I was. If they didn't know me by my name, then by the fact that I was the boy that had sold them their papers for so many years. I was their convenient human vending machine, and to some, I was at one time or other an object of affection.

One of the kids playing tag crashed into my legs and I almost fell over. The young boy looked up at me with fear as I had grabbed his shoulder to steady us both. A flicker of recognition danced across his face as he looked up at me. The child's eyes flickered to the gold tipped cane in my opposite hand and then back at me. His playmates now were close by watching timidly to see if I would strike out. They all had noticed my cane as well, they all knew who I was, and most likely informed by older siblings or children on the street. The kids couldn't have been older than five and they were lucky enough to not work in the factories. Around us, the streets moved and teemed with life though we stood still, recognition replaced by fear in the child's eyes as they looked up in mine. At one point in time, I would have acted out against the boy, but this wasn't that time.

"Be more careful." I said, but those weren't my words.

They were ghostly words, a haunted memory best left forgotten. I let go my firm grip of the boy's shoulder with a jerk. It took no time at all for the child to scurry off with his playmates with a squeal of delight. He had forgotten his brush with Brooklyn himself, but I stood frozen

_Children have a way of forgiving and forgetting, don't they?_

The question menaced the back of my mind. Blinking fiercely I attempted to repress the things I couldn't quite remember but never could never forget. The busy main street seemed claustrophobic and I cut down a side street that I hadn't ventured upon for quite some time.

It was a passage that taunted with familiarity, but so long ignored that the memory of it all was faded. Where was I going? I didn't even care. The path was so automatic that it took no effort. It wasn't until I saw a painfully recognizable landmark that my heart stuttered.

The white wash was faded on the modest building since the last time I had seen it. Some of it had completely peeled away. The sideboards were more warped than I remembered and the cement stairs leading to the unimposing, scarred, oak door looked more crumbled. The shingles needed patching. This backstreet hideaway for God's people had taken a beating since the last time it had graced my vision. The last time I had come here was when – no, I wouldn't think those thoughts.

My head told my feet to turn and hurry from the place where potent memories lingered. My heart screamed to rid myself of the ache and leave. Everything within me ordered me to run and hide from the thing that stood in front of me, but I couldn't move.

Few people walked these paths unless it was to return to their work or home, and even fewer walked it during this time of the day. It was a desolate byway that I had tried to forget, but failed miserably.

I couldn't move, couldn't think, and for a suspended moment I couldn't breathe. Like a child faced with his ultimate fear, I stood pulverized by the humble building that I once frequented. There was a rumbling in the pit of my stomach that I hadn't felt in a long time. Hell, it had been a long time before I'd really felt anything since – God why couldn't I stop thinking about that?

One of my feet moved forward without my consent. Then the other foot followed suit. The rumbling in my stomach turning into a kind of self-destructive courage. I moved warily towards the church's door. Like that child so afraid of the monster that was really only hidden in themselves, I felt myself fighting the reasonable and unreasonable instincts to flee when I heard it:

_The church's doors are always open._

My head swiveled from side to side to see where that voice had come from, but I knew it only echoed in my mind. I had heard those words before and I knew the voice that had spoken them. I knew that voice – oh… far too well.

Fingers gripped the gold tip of my cane tighter than before, my knuckles actually crackling from the intensity of my grip. What in the hell was I doing? Or rather, what the hell was I afraid of? Each tentative step said nothing of the cocky confidence I had cultivated to make a name and reputation for myself. Brooklyn wasn't scared of anything! This building was a part of my past that I had made every move in the world to forget. This building was a piece of me that I had tried to drown with alcohol on too many occasions to count. Maybe I needed to face it to move past the hurt.

I didn't redirect my I climbed the cement stairs. My face stared down the scratched and marred surface of the strong door. I could feel my own breath coming back and touching my face. Licking my dry lips, I could taste my fear. Swallowing, I took a cautious look around the deserted street as if to make sure no one was watching. Then I placed on damp palmed hand on the brass handle and opened the door.

* * *

His palms were sweaty as one gripped the head of a gold tipped cane and the other the lackluster brass handle on an unimposing oak door. The door was in fact similar to the one on the newsie lodging house he called home, but this scarred, battered door was much different. It was the door of a church.

The paper advertisement was still crumpled in the pockets of the only pair of pants he owned without holes in them. The shirt also was remarkably clean for the ruffian who got into fights to defend his borough, his honor, or just for the hell of it. Each of the buttons were slipped through the frayed holes, except for the one that was missing about halfway down his chest. He'd even scrubbed himself down with soap before he'd come, much more than his usual rinsing of his face. His traditional gray cap rested low over his face as he was half-scared lest anyone important would recognize him. The matter was almost laughable. Spot Conlon, Brooklyn's fearless but feared leader, was going to a prayer meeting.

Steeling his nerves, Spot shoved open the door. There was no one to see his dramatic entry.

He looked around. A small stained glass window was behind the pulpit, and a few normal glass panes were placed along the sidewalls. Only twelve straight back wooden pews were lined up, six on each side of the cramped interior. There was no raised platform for the speaker or any fancy decorations lining the walls or decorating of the pulpit. What looked to be a well-used piano sat along back wall. Behind the piano, a single non-descript, unattractive door, closed from prying eyes, seemingly melted into the wood paneling. A single black pot-belled coal stove was right by the doorway where he had entered along with several wooden pegs lined that back wall by the door.

No one else was there, but he expected it to be so for he was early. He'd planned it this way. This gave him every opportunity to find out what he could about this creature he was seducing. He would take this chance to explore his surroundings a bit more and perhaps when other parishioners arrived he could inquire further about this Mary girl.

Shutting the entryway door, Spot took a seat in one of the back pews and ran his fingers over the finished wood. The pews were plain maple without ornaments. The free standing pulpit was the same. Sparkling light filtered through all of the plain glass panes onto the well kept floorboards, but none radiated through the single stained glass window. Spot found that curious. His puzzlement wouldn't be long lasting.

He walked towards the piano.

The black painted surface must have at one time held a fine gloss, but now it was faded and worn. The ring shaped stains on the top looked as though this had been a bar piano and had too many beers set on it instead of upon tables. A tattered hymnal rested on the music stand ready to be used for its noble purpose.

Spot pulled out the bench that accompanied the keyboard and it scraped across the floorboards noisily. The racket seemed to echo in the silent space and Spot froze. He looked around to make sure that no one was there to see that even though he knew no one was. Letting out a breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding, Spot sat at the piano. The bench wobbled slightly under his weight. Setting his cane at his side on the bench, he looked at the black and white patterned keys for several long moments. Then, reverently, Spot rested one hand's long, tan, ink-stained fingers upon the chipped ivory keys. Feeling their cool surface against the callused pads of his fingertips, he pressed a few notes. The tiny out-of-tune sound was barely audible, but it pulsed inside of him. He liked it.

His musical revere was broken when the door that hid along side the piano opened. Jumping up at the unexpected intrusion, Spot grabbed for his cane. The sudden movement of his standing upset the uneven bench and sent it crashing to the ground. The noise was louder than anything he could have imagined as it echoed through the silence of the room.

He leaped away. The toppled black bench came to rest at a pair of small boot clad feet that also skirted out of the way of the collision. Spot looked at the trespasser's face for the first time since their entrance. It was _her_.

"Oh." A soft gasp came from an even softer pair of lips as a girl with gentle brown hair looked at the bench that had so unceremoniously tipped. "Are you all right?"

She brought her large doe eyes away from the toppled piece of furniture and up to the young man's eyes in front of her. If she recognized him or not, he couldn't tell from her worried expression.

"I'se all right." Spot said.

He quickly removed his hat and clutched it to his chest along with his cane. Inwardly he cursed himself. He was acting as nervous as a school boy being caught by his teacher drawing on his slate. He knew his ways on the streets and how to play by their rules. There he wrote the all of the rules. He could eliminate anything that he found bothersome, and people knew to respect him and his choices. Here he was vulnerable. This wasn't the street. This was a church. His closest exposure to a regular religious experience was when he would get food from the nuns that would give it out to the less fortunate once a week and he was sure that didn't count. There was nothing familiar here onto which he could cling. Everything here was foreign and disconcerting. There was nothing here but things he had to learn. Be it rules, words, actions, or thoughts, he had to learn them to be successful.

"What about you?" he asked.

"I'm well. I thought that I heard someone out here. I didn't mean to startle you." She said.

A soft smile stretched her cupid bow mouth open. It reached across the stool between them and put him at ease. She crossed her hands across the front of her plain gray skirt.

"I didn't mean ta bother anyone."

Spot tried his hardest not to fidget with his hat. The whole situation was terribly uncomfortable. He didn't want to be seducing this Mary girl, or to be in this church. Spot wanted nothing to do with any of this whatsoever, but as he was coming to realize all too quickly, he had no choice.

"You're not a bother." She said. "The church's doors are always open."

Absently she brushed a stray curl away from her face. She tucked it back towards the modest hair covering she wore. Spot watched and learned.

"Always?"

Spot found that hard to believe. Who in their right mind would purposefully leave their doors unlocked at all hours in the slums of Brooklyn New York?

"Yes. Always."

She nodded in affirmation and Spot could only wonder in skepticism. This innocent couldn't possibly believe that these doors were open at all times to anyone who would enter.

"How do ya know that there always open?" he said.

His words held a challenge, and he knew he shouldn't try to fight this girl, but he had to know. Always? He tried to relax his posture by tucking his cane through one of the loops in his clean brown slacks. His defenses were instinctive right now against this odd and intimidating situation, but she didn't seem to mind or she simply didn't notice.

"I live here." She said.

The fact came and he was speechless for a moment.

"You live in the church?"

"Well, the rectory. It is attached to the back of the church." She said and made a gesture with her hand towards the still open door from whence she had come.

At least that explained the lack of light coming through the stained glass. There was a residence on the other side.

"I thought that was where the pastor lived." Spot's mind fumbled over the information.

"It is. I'm his daughter."

Her words and all of their ramifications crashed around him like a shattered plate glass window.

The pastor's daughter! When he took on this bet he knew that it wouldn't be easy wooing the unsuspecting church going girl into his less than noble machinations, but this! She wasn't only the daughter of some attendee of this parish, but she was the child of the leader himself. She was the perfect picture of piety and virtue. Her small hands clasped in front of her dress properly. The high collared blouse she wore was clean and neat. She looked exactly like a pastor's daughter should from the tip of her black buttoned boots to her starchy white head cover. Spot looked up at the hill he had to climb and saw it grow into a mountain.

"Ah."

It was all he could trust himself to say.

This whole venture had been a mistake. He may as well just call it off and pay Snaps' board for a year. An awkward silence ensued and Spot was afraid to speak, unsure of what to say to the girl, and considering running out of the door. He cleared his throat.

"Do you play?" She nodded to the piano, and Spot swiveled his head to glance at the battered instrument, and then back at her.

"No. No, I don't play."

An unusual case of embarrassment swelled inside of the pit of his stomach at the memory of how he had been so scared when he'd played those few notes and the door opened. He had no reason to be afraid, but he had jumped like he'd been caught stealing. His ears grew hot and his skin felt like he'd been in the sun for too long. The top button of his shirt felt a bit too tight and he resisted the urge to loosen it. He bent swiftly to reinstate the cursed bench's position to upright, but that didn't change the fact that Spot Conlon was blushing.

"Would you like to play?" She asked.

"Sure. Who wouldn't?" He shrugged and tossed his gray cap on the stool between them.

"Have you ever played before?" She moved forward ever so slightly. Her gray skirt brushed the edge of the bench.

"Nah."

Meeting her eyes – he gave her his best knee-weakening smile. He was pleased when she seemed to be slightly flustered by his gaze and smile. This was more progress than he had expected. This was an improvement from their dialogue on the street corner and this was definitely an improvement from him blushing.

"I could teach you if you like." She said.

Her words were like a light shining down from the heavens. This was his chance, his reason, his excuse to be with this girl in a way that didn't require service attendance. Opportunity knocked and Mary held the door wide open for him.

"How much?" he asked.

Money was a serious matter. No matter how golden this opportunity was. Payment was an object.

"How much of what?" Mary frowned, her small nose scrunching up slightly in a way that Spot would soon find very familiar.

"Money. For lessons." He received a blank stare. "How much do ya want me ta pay ya?"

"Oh." She said. Her understanding was accompanied with a soft, melodic laugh. Something in Spot warmed at the sound. "I don't want your money."

"You - don't."

It wasn't a question because he was sure she didn't mean it. This went against everything he'd ever known. How could someone want to give him something and not want anything in return?

"No." She shook her head.

"I don't have a piano. I can't practice."

"You can practice here at the church. The church doors are always open."

The reinstatement, almost automatic on her part, but it held a whole different meaning this time. It wasn't just open to strangers, it was open to him. She held his gaze steadily with her wide innocent eyes and a soft smile hidden at the corner of her mouth. It was a strange moment. Spot was not used to being welcomed openly anywhere but his borough. It made his skin feel funny and his palms sweat. He already planned on taking so much from this girl, and this additional prize seemed tainted.

"Always, huh?" He said, cracking a grin to hide his discomfort. "Sounds like we have a deal."

"Mary? Mary is someone there?" A low voice, slightly worn with age, came through the open door to the rectory.

"Yes Papa." The girl turned her head to the door and smiled at her father as he came through.

Her father was a tall man who looked like life had never been easy for him. The sun-darkened skin of his face was wrinkled around his eyes, and mouth. Trenches lined his forehead, and his jaw was sagging. His eyes were as brown as his daughter's and for all their lines held a jolly disposition that shone from within. In his weathered hands he held a worn gray dishtowel and was wiping the skin of his palms dry. Thick, graying brown hair was combed away from his face. His plain gray slacks were the same color as his daughter's skirt and his off-white shirt was properly ironed, buttoned, and tucked into his trousers. Two faded black suspenders hung at his sides, and his black shoes had obviously been spit shined for the meeting tonight. He tucked the dishtowel into the waistline of his pants and placed a free hand on the small shoulder of his daughter.

For such a meek looking man Spot felt a shock of fear jolt down the length of his spine.

"Are you here for the service tonight, brother?" The pastor said. The man's voice held an accent that was vaguely familiar to Spot. Whatever it was, it was foreign. He didn't remember Mary having an accent.

"Yes – yes sir."

"I'm Pastor Lindhart." He extended the hand that wasn't on his daughter's shoulder towards Spot in introduction.

"Spot." The boy said.

Bringing his palm up to his mouth, he spat out of habit, and almost extended the hand to the pastor. Then, realization struck him that this wasn't a newsie or someone on the street where the palm spitting ritual was understood and accepted. Within one minute of meeting this man Spot had already introduced a very awkward situation.

"Sorry. Habit." He retracted his hand and looked for a place besides his clothes to wipe his palm dry.

"Here." Pastor Lindhart extended the dishtowel from his waistband towards Spot and, gratefully, the boy employed it.

Once finished he returned the towel to the older man who gave it to the girl beside him and whispered a few words in her ear. Mary exited the room with a nod towards Spot and the towel in hand. She exited through the same door from which she came and Spot felt a strange sinking feeling of failure at her departure.

""Thanks for the towel and sorry about that. Newsie."

He stated his occupation in hopes that it would clarify the strange custom. From the look on the man's face, it didn't, but it didn't seem to matter either. The man in front of Spot only smiled at him warmly across the piano bench.

"Let's try this again." Pastor Lindhart said as he put out his hand once more and stated his name. This time, _without_ spitting in his palm, Spot extended his arm and took the Pastor's hand firmly in his own ink stained one.

"Spot, Spot Conlon." The Brooklyn leader gave his name as they shook hands.

"Spot. Did your mother give you that name?"

"No. But it's my name."

Spot was suddenly aware that his street moniker would probably meet with some prejudice in this setting. Very few in this circle would know what power that name held to those on the streets in the group. That could be for the best.

"Well Spot, you're a mite early for the meeting." The pastor grasped his suspenders at his sides and slid them up on his shoulders. "Have you had any supper yet?" He asked. The question took Spot off guard.

"No. I guess I'se should go and get some to pass the time till the meeting." He took a step to the side towards the exit when pastor Lindhart reached out and grabbed his arm familiarly.

"Don't rush off. My Mary just cooked us some supper, and if you're interested you're more than welcome at our table." He invited and Spot looked at him for a minute. He'd barely met this man and he was already inviting him to eat with them at their table?

"How much do ya want for supper?"

The question came as instinct. At this, the older man released his arm and laughed.

"You don't have to pay, son. Here at our table there is always room for one more." His voice was low and warm like the sun on a lazy spring afternoon. "Come." He said and lead the way back into his home.

Spot held back his initial instinct to not trust this man. He let the pastor lead him through the narrow door into an equally narrow hall. There was a steep staircase to his right and in front of him he could see that the hall open to a good sized room. Upon reaching that room he could see that seemed to serve the purpose of kitchen, dining room, study, and bedroom. The walls all had shelves and cupboards covering them. By the door, there was a set of pegs where winter coats hung, unused in these warmer months. A pot-bellied stove sat in the corner. There was a small cot in the adjacent the stove with blankets folded neatly on one end and resting on top of a pillow. By the cot, there was an end table, which looked like it was used for food preparation and cooking as much as a stand for a lamp. A single, small, round table with five mismatched chairs sat in the middle of the room. At that table, two young children sat with their slates and chalk, one boy and one girl.

Spot's eyes took in all of these things and finally came to rest on one thing: Mary. She stood over by the stove with her back turned to them as she worked on her dinner preparations. She'd taken off her hair covering and the western sun shone through the windows causing the tightly bound hair to glisten. Each chocolate strand was in their place besides the few short strands that Spot knew curled prettily around her heart shaped face. The choice of clothes did not do anything to accentuate her figure, but he noticed she had a small waist that flared prettily into strong hips. When she turned her profile towards them it was clear that a pretty flush had taken her cheeks from working so near the heat. This girl was his objective. She was why he was here.

"We have a guest tonight." Pastor Lindhart announced and his family's eyes all turned to him.

The boy and girl at the table looked strikingly similar to the other. Spot noticed that each of the children had their father's wide dark brown eyes. Mary smiled warmly at him when their eyes met. Spot tried a grin.

"This is Spot, and he'll be dining with us tonight." The older man stepped past the newsie and further into the small room. "You've already met Mary." Spot's nodded in affirmation as he eyes stayed with the girl.

"It's a pleasure, brother Spot." She nodded her head respectfully and then turned back to her work. Spot's spirits sunk. Was she so oblivious to his charm?

"These two are Martha and Henry." Pastor Lindhart said.

"Spot?" The boy, Henry, said. "That's a stupid name." His own small voice held a hint his father's accent.

"Henry! Tisn't nice of you to say those things. Tisn't nice at all." The girl, Martha, said. Her hand delivered a firm whack to the back of her brother's head.

"Ow!" He raised a hand to his afflicted skull. "Papa, did you see what she did?"

At this Pastor Lindhart began to laugh. The same rich laugh that he had given only a few minutes before when he had invited Spot in for dinner. Both of the two were sulking and Henry rubbed his head.

"Hush you two." Mary came over to the table now as her father laughed and reprimanded them softly. Kissing them both on the head, Henry twice for his affliction, and she pulled their chairs away from the table. "Put away your studies and set the table." she ordered as she helped by picking up some of the books herself and placing them on one the lower shelves before she opened a cupboard above it and began to draw out miscellaneous dishware.

Through all of this, Spot stood in the place where the pastor had left him. His head spun. This was out of his element. He watched the little boy, Henry, clear off the school supplies that he and his sister had been using as Martha took the dishes that Mary handed to her. It was a system that had been well practiced as the young girl brought the stack of dishes to the table and set them down carefully before dispensing them to their proper places.

It struck him that he'd never seen anyone set a table before.

Just by looking at them, Spot gauged that Martha and Henry were twins about the age of nine. Martha's dark hair was platted back in two pigtail braids with bright blue hair ribbons and Henry's dark shaggy hair was combed much like his fathers. Their clothes all matched with the same gray wool and off white cotton.

Pastor Lindhart helped his daughter bring over what appeared to be a large pot of soup to the table.

"Come have a seat, brother." Pastor Lindhart said, his voice low and strong across the room.

The cheery family smiled a welcome to him as all but Mary took their places at the table. With more confidence than he felt, Spot went to the table and took one of the vacant seats between Henry and Martha. Setting his cap on his lap, he watched those around him to make sure he wasn't breaking any rule that he didn't know.

"You gotta say you're sorry to Spot before we pray, Henry. You can't pray till God knows you're sorry." Martha turned to her brother and commanded him as soon as Spot had sat down.

"Why? I didn't do anything!" Henry protested, and Spot almost agreed with him. He'd never even talked to the kid. Why was an apology necessary?

"You made fun of his name and it tisn't nice." Martha said and the required apology was suddenly clearer.

"All I said was it was stupid cause it is! I was telling the truth!" Henry said. Spot's head swiveled from side to side between the two. The conversation going too quickly for him to be offended.

"Maybe he thinks Henry is a stupid name." Martha said.

Mary brought over a loaf of bread on a cutting board and a pitcher of water. She looked embarrassed by her sibling's arguing and gazed imploringly at her father to stop it. The quibbling duo did not catch the look, but Spot did and he noticed how the pastor motioned for her patience.

"He does not! Do you?" Now Henry addressed Spot.

The question caught him off guard. "No. I don't suppose I do."

"See? I told you!" Henry said and stuck out his tongue.

"All right, that's enough." Pastor Lindhart said. "Martha, do not judge lest you be judged." He said to his daughter before turning to his son. "Henry, pride comes before destruction, a haughty spirit before the fall." His reprimand seemed gentle by Spot's standards but both hung their heads in shame. "Now please, before we ask our Father to bless this meal, apologize to each other and our guest."

"Sorry." It was murmured in such perfect, pitiful synchronization Spot suspected it was a common phrase for them.

"Now we shall bless the meal. Bow your heads."

It was clear the Pastor was not one to linger in the past. Everyone around the table's heads ducked together, except for Spot who was a few beats behind. Then, in perfect unison, the entire family began to recite their prayer over the meal.

"_Our Father who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: for thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory for ever. Amen_."

Spot watched them all surreptitiously. All of their eyes were shut. The twins' eyes were squinted furiously as though it made their prayer more penitent. Both Mary and her father looked serine. He was unable to recite along with them. If this was going to be habit – he would have to learn.

Watching, he saw that the family passed their dishes to their father who in turn served them and passed it along. Spot waited his turn. Tonight's fare appeared to be some sort of soup and the thick crusted bread that Mary had placed on the table during the children's spat. Ladling out the watery broth, Pastor Lindhart took a deep inhalation of his daughter's cooking and smiled broadly. Once everyone was served, Pastor Lindhart took was the first to take a bite and he made a sound of approval.

"Manna from heaven, Mary. The Lord has used you to provide us with yet another fantastic meal." The compliment made the girl blush visibly.

"Thank you, Papa." She said.

Her small voice seemed even smaller in the return of his compliment. If Spot listened carefully he swore he could hear the slightest lilting dialect that resembled her father's much more pronounced one.

Silence came to them as they enjoyed the food that lay before them. Though meager by many others' standards it was a filling feast for the weary traveler. He found that the thick crusted bread was excellent to dip into the broth made from leftover chicken meat.

The thoughts in Brooklyn's head wandered from food, to this peculiar family, to the girl he was impossibly seducing, to his responsibilities to his newsies, and all of the different things he needed to have done tomorrow. There was little which escaped his sharp mind. He had trained himself so that it would be this way, he couldn't afford for it not be.

"Your daughter has been kind enough to offer to teach me how to play the piano. I hope that's all right with you, sir." Spot offered tactfully into the silence, and Pastor Lindhart cast a look of surprise towards his oldest daughter.

His eyes went to the girl who had offered him the lessons and she was looking at him with an expression he wasn't sure he understood. Was it embarrassment, perhaps?

"My Mary plays the piano for our services. She's the best accompanist for which you could ask. She has the voice of an angel, too."

Mary swatted at her father's arm with a small hand to shush him.

"Papa!" Clearly she was embarrassed by this open praise.

"Oh come now, Mary. There is no need to be shy with your gifts. The Lord has blessed us all in different ways." He placed a large hand on her back comfortingly.

"Why's your name Spot?" Henry said, having been quiet too long.

"Henry, that's rude." Martha rebuked quickly. She leant forward to look around Spot at her brother.

"That's enough you two." Mary took the initiative to stop them this time before they had a chance to really get started. It was clear she was just relieved to have the topic off of her. "If Spot wants to tell you why he is called that, I'm sure he will." She looked at the boy across the table from her with her wide brown eyes and Spot grinned at her once more. To this, she continued to smile sweetly in return until Henry tapped Spot on the shoulder and he was distracted once more.

"Are you going to tell us?" he asked.

Spot heard Martha heave a sigh on the other side of him as Pastor Lindhart chuckled.

"I'se a newsie, kid, and that's what the other newsies call me." Spot said. What other reason could he give? He didn't want to give the explanation of running from the warden and how using an alias made him harder to catch. Henry's eyes grew wide.

"You're a newsie? Is that why you have a cane?" He grabbed at the gold tip that hung from Spot's hip. Spot made a protective move towards his prize possession blocking it from the invasive hands of the child.

"Henry, tisn't nice to grab other people's things!" Martha said, but Henry did not even respond.

He was too enthralled with Spot. The way he was staring at him inflated Spot's ego. If it was this easy to impress the boy, could it be that much harder to impress Mary?

"I've always wondered what it would be like to newsie." Henry said to Spot with wide eyes and Spot could not help but smile. It seemed like such a strange wonderment.

"Do you live with your family or on the streets?" Henry's mouth was full of bread.

"I lives in the lodging house." Spot didn't want to go into his family history right now and hoped the boy would leave it alone.

"A lodging house. What's that?" At this point the lad had swung his legs over to the side of his chair so he was now facing Spot.

"It's a place where all the newsie live and sleep." Spot explained.

"_All_ of the newsies live there?" Henry's eyes grew wide.

"Well, not all of them. Some of them live other places. Some live with their family."

It was the truth, but he did not give those boys and girls the same respect as those that lived in the lodging house

"So you can live with your family and still be a newsie?" Henry lent forward with anticipation and Spot lent back with shock.

He was unsure of how to respond to this young boy's overly enthusiastic questions. He looked out of the corner of his eye towards Pastor Lindhart and Mary for a cue, but got nothing.

"Of course ya could." He chose the truth. The boy _could_ be a newsie, but that didn't mean he _would _be.

"You can't be a newsie! Tisn't proper." Martha said Henry's enraptured face twisted into a sneer.

"You're just jealous because girls can't be newsies!" Henry looked up at Spot. "They can't, can they?"

Spot smirked. This child was so young and naïve, he would not last a week as a newsboy.

"There's girls." he said and the boy's face fell. "But there are a lot more boys." Spot covered, trying to not disappoint either child too greatly.

"All right, Henry." Pastor Lindhart cut off his son before he could ask anything else.

"That's enough questions about being a newsie for one night, or at least until after dinner." He winked at the small boy across the table who smiled broadly back at his father.

After that, they all ate in silence. Spot never took his eyes off Mary.

* * *

The inside of the church was just how I remembered it, though like the exterior, it was a little worse for wear. Tucking my cane into my suspenders, I took in the scene. The floor didn't shine with its previous radiance and the windows seemed more dingy. The same twelve pews were lined up in perfect precision leading to the same wood pulpit. If I shut my eyes, I could almost hear her playing the same black piano that sat in the corner. I was drawn to the instrument as I had been the first day I had come here so long ago. That day was such a distant memory, I could barely recall the details of any of it.

I ran my fingers over the key's case before lifting it and touching the precious, stained, chipped ivory. The same worn hymnal rested upon the stand. I picked it up. The binding broken fell open in my hands. So many of the songs were familiar. I could still hear her singing them or playing them. The sound of my shutting the book resounded in the silent building. Again, I shut my eyes. The noise from the hymnal was not the only thing that echoed inside of this building. Every sight, sound, and smell reminder me of her. Absolutely everything in this building tied to her in some way and I practically feel her inside of me.

It exhausted me. My legs felt like they could not support me any longer as I collapsed onto the uneven piano bench. One hand came up to hold my head as I shook. I felt like I was breaking apart. Sweat beaded on my forehead, but I was cold. I felt like I could vomit. Opening my eyes, I took in the room once more. I had no right to be here. I wanted to leave but stayed rooted.

Leaving this place would be like losing her all over again.

It was stupid, but as I sat there, I could have sworn that I felt her, tasted her once more. The initial tidal wave of emotions waned, but I could taste my own anxiety.

I heard my cane click each time I moved my body. Every sound that I made was amplified in the quiet of the sanctuary. I stroked the keys once more. I hadn't played after she left, but the familiar cool ivory beckoned my fingers. I picked out a faint, familiar melody. I was so lost in the tune that I did not hear the door open behind me.

"Can I help you, brother?" Came a voice I had not heard in oh so long.

The warm baritone swept over me like a cold splash of water, snapping me from my dreamlike state into reality. I froze, every hackle on my neck rising. I almost ran just so I would not have to face him, but this was a man whom I once respected.

I stood. I should have known this moment would come if I ever came back. It was just that I had not expected it to happen like this. With my back still to him, I bowed my head as I turned. My heart pounded in my ears so hard that I could not hear anything else. It took every bit of courage that I had to lift my eyes to meet his.

It was startling to see him. The dark brown eyes were not jolly like I remembered. He looked remarkably older, as though time had finally caught up with him. The laugh lines around his eyes had faded, but the trenches on his forehead and between his eyes had deepened considerably. The cap of hair on his head was now more white than brown. A thick beard, just as white as his hair, replaced the clean-shaven jaw I remembered.

For a long moment, we simply stared at each other.

"Spot." He closed the rectory door.

I clenched my jaw, steeling myself against the onslaught of memories driven from this meeting.

"Sir." I nodded, doffing my hat.

"Why – why are you here?" he struggled with the idea I was standing in front of him and I understood. We did not part on good terms.

Why was I here? "I don't - I just - I didn't come to see anyone if that's what you mean." It was the truth, but he didn't believe me. He had the right not to. "I'se sorry. I shouldn't have come. I didn't mean to bother you."

I couldn't stop the compulsion to apologize. Guilt hung around me like a thick black cloud. I ducked my head, unable to continue looking at this man in front of me. I had to leave. I couldn't stand to be here anymore.

"Is there something you need, son?"

After all I had done to him and his family he still asked if I needed anything. It would have shocked me less if he punched me in the chest.

Bile rose in the back of my throat. My mind cursed my body for bringing me here. How could I answer him when he stood here, no doubt feeling a hatred for me as strong as I felt for myself? Even if I needed the smallest token I could not ask it of this man.

"No. I'm set. I won't bother you again."

I wished there was something, anything I could do for him, but this was the greatest favor I could think to pay him. I looked at the man who was stood waiting for me to make the next move. His old body was tense. His eyes watched my every move. It was apparent he remembered our last meeting. I did, too, and regretted it every day.

The man nodded his head and pulled his eyes away from mine. Even so, I saw his tears.

I could never come back here again. I clenched my teeth against the emotions that though surfaced. This was how it had to be. I'd taken something from them, and I wouldn't take anymore. I jerked my cap on my head and refused to cave to the emotions ripping through my chest. My heart was already so shattered, I hadn't conceived that it could possibly break any other way.

Just as I reached the door I heard his voice trail after me.

"The church's doors are always open, Spot. For everyone." His voice was low and strained. My hand clenched painfully around the door handle. Did he have any idea how cruel that phrase was?

_The church's doors are always open_.

Each word slammed inside of my mind until it was all I could do not to scream. I flung the door open, the heavy wood whipping back against the side of the entryway. I couldn't be out of the building soon enough.

I ran and didn't look back once.

* * *

**A/N**: aw…. Poor Spot! I wish I could just give him thousands of hugs and kisses!

**Spot!Muse**: Didn't ya want ta do that before I was all sad an heart broken, anyway?

**Raven**: Oh yeah. I guess I did! Whoops…. Anyway, review!


	11. Perspective

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, the Lindharts, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: Love each other.

**Warning**: PG (violence)

**Chapter 11**: Perspective

* * *

The door shut so forcefully that the windows shook. He was still such an angry young man. He always had been. Silently, I offered a prayer on his behalf before I exhaled deeply. It was true that this young man had single-handedly turned my world upside down and done his share to compromise my family, but I had no right to feel as I did towards him. The pain and hate of which I thought I had let go came rushing back in one terrible swoop. Apparently, my forgiveness had not come packaged with the forgetting as I had hoped it had.

Bowing my head, I pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose, hoping to relieve some of the tension building there. Such as the rushing tide of memories swept over me when his eyes met mine. Our time together was such a brief summer, but so many things had happened. The relationship of this boy to my family had altered our lives irrevocably.

Raising my head, I saw the entry to the church had come ajar. Obviously, the youth's zealous approach to shutting the door had caused it to bounce back open before it could latch. Wearily, I trudged over to the door and placed my hand against its handle. I was tempted to open the door and see if the young man was still in sight, that familiar golden cane glinting fiendishly. He was still such a brazen child in many ways, and for all the loathing I felt towards him, I felt a greater amount of pity.

This pity was the same emotion that had led me to welcome him into our house and allow him a brief respite from the world's troubles. The campaign for the boy's soul had almost cost me my own – but I still couldn't bring myself to understand my conflicting feelings towards him. Looking about the chapel, my eyes lit upon the worn upright piano and suddenly, I was stricken with a memory. A memory that I had buried for safe-keeping of a girl, a boy, and a time that was so foreign it seemed like a completely different lifetime.

* * *

He'd come every single day like clockwork and plinked at the yellowed ivory and black keys. Mary was good to him. She would sit on the pews and sew or read as he practiced. She would answer whatever questions he had about the notes on the pages. Even Pastor Lindhart could hear the improvement in the boy's skills in the first weeks. He played through the first music primer with enviable ease. Each out of tune note coming together to create song after song, and even though it had only been a few weeks, it would have seemed strange not to have the boy playing the keys near four o'clock each afternoon.

Every day he would exchange words with the reserved church mouse that went about her daily duties with perfect serenity as the boy did his best to entice her. The patient smile never waned, her soft encouragement never ceased, nor did her seeming oblivious nature to his perusal. Occasionally, the newsie would coax a blush from her when they were alone, which wasn't often. The chapel was frequented with the busy antics of Henry and Martha, who seemed to be far more intrigued with this boy than their eldest sister. Every so often, Pastor Lindhart would find his way through. Normally to round up his younger children so that the lesson could continue without further interruption, but sometimes he would simply sit with Mary in the pews and listen.

Today, however, was a quiet afternoon. Martha and Henry were both busy with studies that Mary had laid out for them. Pastor Lindhart was outdoors, white washing the church. The process seemed strange to Spot who was painfully familiar with the grime of the city. Those walls would soil again before he could finish painting the whole of the building.

"Just because you get dirty again doesn't mean you don't bathe." The Pastor had told him jovially. His dark eyes twinkled with a light that said he knew a secret.

The lesson was going well. Spot was playing through a simple hymn from Mary's piano primer. She was sitting on the bench darning socks. Occasionally, she would give him a tip or come over to help him identify a note pattern with which he had trouble, but primarily she sat at a distance. That is how many of their lessons were, her teaching was limited as Spot ploughed ahead with a stern determination. Today was no exception.

The six symmetrical windows were opened. Noises from outside filtered into the sanctuary. Pastor Lindhart was whistling, an occasional carriage or horse passed, and Martha and Henry played marble on the steps. Their bickering rose every so often but subsided just as quickly. It was just before the hurried rush of workers would return home and just after the hurried rush of the afternoon edition. All in all, it was a quiet afternoon in the small back alley of New York. Perhaps that made the next moments all more deafening.

First, it was a sharp snap, followed by the sound of crunching wood and the clatter of metal. Then there was a harsh call and a sickeningly dull thud. A cloud of dust rose outside of the middle window on the far side of the church. For an instant everything froze, but then Mary was moved over to look out of the window. Spot, quick as a cat, was already at the door and going around to the outside. Just as he rounded the corner to survey what had caused the commotion, he heard Mary's distressed voice floating through the air.

"Papa!" his sharp blue eyes saw her leaning out the window, the color completely drained from her face.

The panic that was on her face gripped his own heart as he saw Pastor Lindhart's crumpled body twisted in the fallen ladder. White wash covered the dirt. The wooden ladder upon which the pastor had stood was on its side and Pastor Lindhart himself was a mess of tangled limbs on top of it. Martha and Henry were opposite of Spot across from their father. Martha had already worked herself into hysterics and Henry looked too stunned to move. Spot felt someone at his arm. Looking to his side, it was Mary. Her wide brown eyes stared up at him in a pleading motion that caused him to clench his jaw and swallow heavily. She expected him to take control of the situation and he knew that there was no choice.

He'd seen enough of death and accidents to know that this could be bad. The pastor wasn't moving, wasn't making any noise, which meant he had either snapped his neck or unconscious. Swallowing a mouthful of nothing, Spot hurried to the fallen man. Mary moved quickly over to her siblings, ushering them into her arms.

It took Spot a moment to assess the situation and figure what had happened. One of the ladder's legs had broken. The old wood just gave out and Pastor Lindhart had taken quiet a hard fall. In the fashion he had fallen, Spot couldn't see his face as he knelt next to the body. His pulse was pounding in his ears, but he moved with a cool confidence he had taught himself to have in any situation.

The throbbing beat rocking through his system as he reached a careful hand over to the man. He could the children's eyes boring into the back of his dark head. They were all counting on him. He could barely breathe. The thumping of his heart was the only thing he could hear. All he could do to keep from shaking was to clench his jaw.

First he took one of the pastor's arm by the bicep and picked it up, it was limp. He turned the older man over. Everything passed in a surreal slowness. His eyes raced to the bright crimson stain on the pastor's temple. It was actively bleeding. That meant his heart was still , Spot arranged the man so his head lolled back over part of the wrecked ladder.

"Pastor Lindhart! Pastor Lindhart!" he didn't know if he should shake him. The way his right arm was bent made him think he shouldn't

He took the heel of his hand and pressed it against the bleeding wound. Pressure stopped bleeding. He knew that. Then there was soft brown hair glistening in the afternoon sun as Mary shoved a piece of white cloth at him. Stupidly, he stared at it, not understanding. When had she come over here?

"Put it on his cut." When she spoke everything sped back up. Nothing was moving too slow anymore. Now everything was racing.

"Henry!" Spot called, grabbing the cloth and doing as Mary said with it. "Do ya know where the doctor works around here?" He didn't wait for the boy to make it over to him before he asked. The boy only nodded, his eyes on his father. "Go get him!" Spot ordered. When the boy hesitated and looked at Mary with dark questioning eyes, Spot felt his patience slip. "Go now!" his voice louder than intended and with a dark edge reserved for his disobedient newsies.

Henry looked confused. Spot had never taken a tone like that with him. Hurt spring into the child's face, and even though he was used to expression on the faces of his newsies, it was different with this boy. Right now, however, there wasn't time for nicety. Spot wanted the boy to run like the wind for the doctor and bring him back. Now.

"Henry. Please. Go!" His tone was urgent, but kinder this time, barely.

He gritted his teeth as the small child looked at Mary for permission. How long would he take? When his older sister nodded he was off in a flash.

"What can I do? I want to do something!" Martha choked on her own sobs.

"Calm down." Spot ordered. He never took his eyes off of the pastor.

His blue eyes went everywhere. There were no other signs of bleeding, but there was no doubt that the pastor had other injuries.

"Martha, go inside and make sure that none of the whitewash came in through the window." Mary said to her sister.

The younger girl hurried into the church. It was a curious instruction, but Spot knew it was just to distract the girl from the situation. Once Martha disappeared, Spot felt the gentle hand on his arm. He jumped at the unexpected contact. His nerves were on fire.

"What do you need me to do?" Mary asked.

She was very close and he was overly aware that she was touching his arm. They'd never touched before beyond an accidental brush. This was the first purposeful touch she gave him. There was a lingered breath. His eyes held hers. Something stirred in Spot's stomach that felt an awfully big. There was no time to consider it now, and part of him was glad for that.

He looked back at Pastor Lindhart. The cloth he was using to cover the wound was now soaked and useless for its purpose. The crimson color was a bloody contrast to the gray pallor that his skin was taking.

"We need some clean water and some rags to stop the bleeding." He said.

Silently she stood and moved into the building hurriedly. Taking a deep breath his mind searched for something, anything to do. Should he try to move the pastor inside or leave him here? Would he even be able to lift the man alone? With one of his boys, he would have moved him, but then again they would not be fetching a doctor. Pulling the rag away from the man's temple, he wondered if the bleeding had slowed at all. It was this moment that he realized he'd been using Mary's head cover to stop her father's blood. The thin cotton ties were as red as the setting sun. Mary returned now along with Martha/ She carried a large pot of steaming water, Martha carried a stack of rags, and sure enough there was no white cap on Mary's head.

The girls brought the things he needed to his side. Martha gazed at him expectantly and Mary's eyes told a similar story. They needed him to know what to do. They needed him to be sure of himself. He knew that it was to be in power and be in control, but if he did not know how to deal with a situation with the news boys, he was always able to dismiss it. This was different, there was no way for him to simply brush it aside and walk away. These girls had followed his instructions, and now as he sat there in the awkward position by the broken ladder, he set his jaw. They needed him in a way that he had never been needed before. No one ever needed him like this before.

He tossed the soiled, bloody cloth onto the dirt and he reached for the clean one Martha extended. The focus on his task kept his hand from shaking as he plunged the cloth into the scalding water. A sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth as he withdrew his hand. The flesh on it was pink from the heat and the soaking rag burned further, but he ignored it. Blood from his hands tainted the fabric as it had the water even before he brought it to the old man's face. Hopefully this would help sear and clean the wound.

From his time on the streets, Spot understood a thing or two about cuts on the face. One of the things was that they bleed profusely, and another was that if they became infected, it was bad. He'd heard that hot water cleaned out infection, and he hoped that it was true.

The bleeding seemed to be slowing. When Spot pulled back the cloth to check he saw a long gash jerking its way across the man's wrinkled temple and up into his salt and pepper hair. It wasn't simply a scratch either. It was deep and angry.

"Here." Mary said.

Her own hand clutched a steaming rag. The skin of her knuckles was red and the flesh on her hand was a bright pink. Dropping the cooled rag to the ground, Spot hurriedly grabbed the steaming one and held back a hiss. The rag he had been holding might as well been packed with ice for it did nothing to prepare him for the scalding once more.

Once he had pressed the fresh rag to Pastor Lindhart's wound, he looked at Mary. She had no reason to have injured her hand in such a fashion. Then again, neither did he. The self-sacrifice tasted strange on his tongue. He wasn't used to people helping each other. This girl was very different from the self-serving street rats he called friends.

Water and blood ran in rivulets down the pastor's face. Spot noted that both Martha and Mary looked pale. Was his face that ghostly shade? He hoped that he was better outwardly composed than the girls. Mary moved along side of him with a dry rag and began sopping up the trails of water and blood from her father's face and he saw her lips moving in silent words. Was she praying?

Henry came running down the alley yelling something unintelligible.

"Henry, what is it? Is the doctor coming?" Mary stood and he nearly crashed into her.

The boy nodded vigorously.

"When?" Martha went over to her breathless brother, too.

"Soon. Had to get his horse." His was face flushed and sweaty. His hair stood on end in reckless mishap.

For the doctor, 'soon' turned out to be shortly after Henry had made his flustered appearance. He came on horseback at a careful trot and quickly assumed control over the situation. The next events were a blur, passing quickly and orderly. For once, Spot was relieved to be taken out of control and simply ordered.

Together, Spot and the doctor, who was a man not over forty, moved the pastor into the rectory. After they had placed him on the cot in the corner of the kitchen, the doctor had everyone to leave the room so that he could examine his patient. They all sat out in the sanctuary. Martha and Henry played marbles on the wood boards. Mary tried to return to darning socks, but her burned hand pained her. Spot slumped over the keys of the piano, his own injured hand curled against his torso. The burns weren't bad, Spot knew, but they were still uncomfortable. They'd heal quickly.

It wasn't necessary for Spot to stay. The obligation that he held to this situation passed once the doctor had told him to leave him with Pastor Lindhart. Surely a new edition of the paper was out and being hawked on the streets for money - money that he could use. However, he stayed. The time that he had spent with this family had changed him even if he refused to realize or admit it. Justifications of wanting to stay to win this bet preached themselves in his mind, and he adhered to them stubbornly.

Very few words were exchanged, and time crawled by. Spot sat by Mary on the pew. They were close, but not touching. He watched her hands move with an experienced deftness about her task. Neither one spoke, but they were both seemingly glad for the mindless distraction of her household task. Even Martha and Henry were quiet, their usual squabbling absent in the presence of a seemingly much larger problem. It was a painfully long time before the doctor emerged from the door by the piano. They all stood.

"How's Papa? Can we see him?" Henry said, scattering marbles all over the floor in his haste.

"Hush Henry." Mary said. Her tone was soft but it was clear her patience was waning. Apparently, strain could effect even the most pious.

"Yeah, hush Henry," Martha echoed and Mary gave her a look that silenced both of the rough and tumble children.

"He's broken his right arm and ankle." The doctor informed them briskly, but mainly speaking to Spot and Mary. "I set the bone and stitched the cut on his face." He listed the processes, and Spot swallowed heavily at the remembrance of the gash on the pastor's temple. "He is unconscious, and because of the blow he took to his head I cannot be sure when he will wake." Spot could see Mary tremble from the corner of his eye, but she stood tall and maintained the peaceful expression on her face. "If he doesn't wake within twelve hours, be sure to fetch me once more. If he does wake, give him a dose of this laudanum for the pain." He stepped forward and handed Spot a small, brown, glass bottle of the painkiller. "I'll send you your bill. Good day."

Then with a tip of his hat, he stepped around the crowd of people and made his way to the door. His spry step was comparative to his brisk business manner. Then he was gone.

For a long moment, they all stood stupefied. Spot numbly held the laudanum in his ink stained, burned fingers processing the information that the doctor had delivered. It seemed like the others were doing the same thing. Blankly he turned to them. The two children were both staring at Mary who was obviously trying to be much stronger than she felt. Wordlessly, he watched as Henry pulled on Mary's sleeve and Martha on her skirt. He knew the strain of caring for those younger than himself when he was nothing more than a boy in his own right. He knew the weight of responsibility and the sting of heartache as well as the pressure of making decisions when all you wanted to do was hide. That is why he was the one acted first.

"Is'll check and see if it's fine for yous come back." Spot said.

He knew how messy things like this could be and he didn't want them to walk into a room where their father was bloody and battered. He walked to the backroom. Sunlight glimmered in through warped windows onto Mary's well-kept floor. The Pastor lay still on the cot, the top of his head facing Spot and the boy could still see some of the blood matted in the man's hair. Spot moved towards him and looked at the pastor.

Aside for the blood that had dried in his hair and on his clothes, the Doctor had cleaned Pastor Lindhart well. His face was still ashen and there was a large white patch pressed over where the cut had been and securely wrapped in place with strips of equally white fabric. The broken arm professionally splinted and draped across his torso. It looked far superior to the makeshift restraints that he had made for his boys from time to time. A dark bruise was creeping along one side of his face, but he didn't look like he was in pain.

"Spot?" Mary said. Her voice floated down the hallway. She must be eager to see her father.

"Come on back." Spot said.

They'd seem their father bleeding and crumpled. Seeing their father like this would probably have an effect on them no matter how good he looked. They all came in and immediately came to their father's side. Mary knelt closest to his head. Her two siblings stood next to her silently. Slacking one hip, Spot stood uncomfortably in the eerie silence. Then the question that they all held back until now came.

"Is papa going to be all right?" Henry asked.

His tone wasn't tainted with doubt like Spot knew his would be, but laced with a child's fear. It was an honest question for which there was no easy answer and he watched Mary as she turned to him as he stood next to her. Martha's eyes also watched her older sister, and from where he stood, unnoticed and unremembered, Spot could see the same question reflected in each of their eyes. Would they all be orphans soon? Life's frailties caught in this expression.

"I don't know, Henry. We must pray for him." Mary said, honest and steady.

Sunbeams sparkled off her uncovered hair. A few ringlets had come loose around her heart shaped face. She gripped her brother's shoulder affectionately, smiling gently.

"What if he isn't all right? What if he never wakes up?" Martha asked.

Her lip and voice quivering in unison. Spot saw the true pang of hurt hit Mary. The single question sapped her strength instantly. Spot stepped forward.

"Martha, Henry," All three heads swiveled towards him. "Come with me." He ordered and then looked at Mary. "We'se going to go and get something to eat." He answered Mary's questions even as he ordered the two as to what they would do.

"I'll stay here with Papa." Mary said. "Go and get a quarter each from the rag money."

The two scurried off, excited at the proposition of getting to eat outside of the house and Mary stood.

"Thank you." Mary said to Spot once the two children had run upstairs. Unsure of what to do – Spot smiled nervously.

"Here." He extended the bottle the doctor had given him to her. "Is'll have them back after we'se eat. Ya gonna be all right here by yourself?" He stepped closer to her, taking a risk on proximity.

His eyes peered down at her. They were closer than he had allowed himself ever to be to her. The line of propriety was crossed, but she wasn't drawing away. He knew about taking advantage of girls when they were in an overly emotional state of mind. Plus he knew how outrageously innocent this girl was. Would she even understand his close posturing as an act of pursuit or would she translate it into something more platonic?

"I'll be fine. Thank you." She looked up at him and smiled. Her melted chocolate eyes were wide and clear. There was a peace about her even in this time of trouble. It was a peace that he couldn't even begin to understand.

Small feet pounded down the stairs. The sound alerted Spot to their nearing presence and his natural sense of timing signaled him to act quickly. Easily, he slipped on of his still pink hands under her chin and held it between his thumb and forefinger. This forced her to keep her face cheated towards him as he lent down with practiced ease. Chastely he brushed his lips against the place on her forehead where her hair met her skin. The gesture could have even been described as brotherly, but Spot knew his motives behind it were anything but pure. He drew back just as the two scrambling around the corner. They were ready to depart. Giving Mary a smile he stepped back. The smile she gave in return was strained. That wasn't the reaction for which he hoped.

Henry was at Spot's side now – practically shaking with anticipation. Spot had become a sort of idol to him over the past week and it was very clear to all of those around them that Henry indeed wanted to be as much like Spot as he could.

Grabbing his cap from one of the pegs against the wall Spot nodded to Mary.

"Is'll have them back soon. Theys'll be safe, don't worry." He said.

"I trust you." She said, and he wondered if her words meant more than she said.

He could think about this later. Right now he had two hungry, eager children pulling at him. Turning on his heel he opened the back door into the alleyway behind the church.

"Behave!" Mary called after them. In the back of his mind Spot couldn't help but wonder if she was referring to him as well. If she had a lick of sense in her – she would.

* * *

Sighing, I pressed firmly and the door clicked smoothly into place. The sound of the

heavy edifice coming into the place rung in the silence of the church's sanctuary, and for a moment it was the only sound in the building. Then, it was replaced by soft footsteps.

"Papa? Was someone here?" The lilting, feminine voice floated over the echoes of the door. Slowly I exhaled, turning around to face my daughter. She had come down the aisle and stopped at the last row, her heart shaped face drawn with exhaustion but still peaceful. How could I answer that question?

"Just a lost soul looking for an answer." I said.

I didn't have the heart or courage to tell her exactly who it was. She'd been through more than any girl should have to go through. Taking a few steps towards her, I wearily extended my hand and put it on her shoulder.

"Come Mary," I turned her and directed our steps back to the rectory. "Let's go and see what we can have for dinner."

* * *

**A/N**: Oh, now I know you didn't expect to see _her _come back, now did ya?


	12. Proposition

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, the Lindharts, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: I aim to have this done by the end of Christmas break because if I don't… who knows when it will get done?

**Warning**: PG (thematic elements and sexuality)

**Chapter 12**: Propositions

* * *

I hadn't seen Spot since our incident at The Scrape the night before. I hadn't sold the morning edition and no one had seen him show up for the afternoon edition. That wasn't surprising, though. He rarely sold in the afternoon anymore. His excuse was that he had too many things to attend to. Why couldn't one of those things be me?

I hadn't been able to sleep last night because of all of the thoughts pounding through my head. I hadn't been able to focus today because of the same tormented pattern of memories. I hadn't been able to eat because my stomach was sick with worry. I hadn't been able to talk to anyone without asking about Spot. Everything within me ached for him.

My trinity knot had left an impression on the palm where I had clutched it. My eyes burned from lack of sleep and the dirt and grim of the city. My heart sunk lower every time I thought of him. My mind raced with possibilities of where he could be or what he could be doing. My fingers ached to touch him the way that I had once touched him. My lips longed to be the ones that he kissed when he needed comfort – but I knew that the time for that had passed.

All because of _her_.

She had been the one that made him smile. She had been the one that he wanted forever. She had been the one that he loved in a way that I wanted. She was the one that broke him down to what he was today. She was the one that had left him. I hated her

These thoughts plagued me as I wandered around the streets in hopes to catch a glimpse of him. I was hoping that I would find him joking with his friends as he used to do. The same old smirk set in its same infuriating place. His stormy eyes would be smoldering with the same sin and seduction that made my knees weak. Lean body folded back against a wall or held imperiously upon a crate. His gold tipped cane would proclaim him royally. Oh, how I ached to think of what he was and how he had made me feel.

I was overwhelmed with the exhaustion. My feet slowed and I lent against a wall. Sorrow gripped me like a vice.

How I ached to fix him. How I ached for him to want me once again. The key that banged alongside my trinity knot was a constant reminder of what I had lost and what I probably would never have again. It was cruel reminder, but I couldn't bring myself to remove it. I couldn't remove it from my chain anymore than I could remove Spot from my heart.

People moved past me, not caring a button for what I was or what I could be feeling. I didn't expect them to, but as I looked around I noticed that this was a place that I had rarely ever been. The streets were familiar, but only vaguely. I hadn't been here often. It wasn't in my selling route or near any of my usual haunts. It was primarily residential here. A few shops tucked themselves away on corners and there was a glittering of something in the back of my mind. There was something about this place that was familiar.

Shaking my head I tried to get the strange feeling out of my system. My mind needed sleep – it was starting to think things that weren't true. However I couldn't get myself to move towards the lodging house. So I sat and let my mind wander. Pressing back against the brick wall as far as I could I barely even saw the people pass by me on the sidewalk. My mind ventured back to the blue-eyed devil that I couldn't forget and the one of the first times I'd found him with drunk with Snaps. Snaps was obviously trying to sober him up before taking him back to the lodging house – a smart move – and Spot had been babbling about Mary. It was a strange thing to be remembering, but I couldn't help but recall the story he was telling that night.

* * *

Pastor Lindhart was awake by the time that Spot had brought back Martha and Henry, but it was clear that he was worried. There was so much work to be done around the church before the extremely hot days of summer set in, but in his current state there was no way which he could complete them. Henry was too young to do it by himself and Martha and Mary worked in the house. It would be impossible to ask his congregation. They all worked through the week in factories and mills or at the dock – they had no time to donate to this project. The little money that they gathered during offering was spread during the week so they could keep this little building alive and well. The check that they received each month from their mother church barely covered his family's most basic needs. There was no way that they could hire help.

Seeing this as a golden opportunity to spend even more time with the family and worm his way deeper into Mary's system, Spot instantly brought forth a proposition. After he sold the morning edition he would come and do whatever was needed in exchange for his lunch and supper. With little persuasion needed, it practically arranged itself. That was how Spot his afternoons for the next three weeks.

Time passed. Each day that Spot came it was clear he was welcomed more and more into the Lindhart's small world. He learned about their way of life and filled in the blanks about how a family operated. The rules he'd imagined to be infinite weren't as complex as he thought they would be.

He learned that profanity and slang were never appreciated. Curbing his language didn't prove to be that difficult, and neither did the putting forth a kind face. Martha and Henry were eating out of the palm of his hand and Pastor Lindhart was well on his way to be there along with them. Mary proved to be more difficult than he thought she would be. Though she was polite and kind, that is all she was. Besides a fleeting brush or accidental bump, Spot hadn't touched her since he kissed her forehead. This frustrated him to no end.

Spot patched the church's roof, white washed the entire exterior and interior of the building, and sealed cracks around the windows the first week. Henry followed him like a dog would his master. Helping Spot in whatever way he could, but primarily just getting in the way. While he would normally yell at a younger newsie for doing such a thing, Spot bit his tongue. Instead of rebuking the boy, he told him stories.

He told him about being a newsie. Spot didn't glamorize the stories about the fights, the sickness, the starving and striving for every penny they had – but Henry still seemed enamored with the idea. Spot told him about the late night poker games, the trips to the race tracks, and the visits to Coney Island in the summer when the circus came into town; how they'd hitch rides on the back of carriages and sneak onto trolleys to get from territory to territory, and how they'd share bunks because there weren't enough for everyone. Henry ate up every word.

Some of the week was spent under the careful instruction of Pastor Lindhart repairing various things around the church. A wobbly pew, the stoves' pipes needed to be cleaned, a new cupboard that he had ordered for Mary needed to be stained because he couldn't afford to pay the craftsmen to do that as well. Then, of course, she needed help moving all of her dishes from the shelves to the new stately looking piece of furniture (Henry and Spot both dropped a piece that broke). It stood taller than the newsboy and had two doors that opened out into the room. Simply made and practical in its functions, the piece of furnishing was much like its mistress.

If only he could open her doors as easily as he could open that cupboard.

It was the first day of the second week in May and Spot had sold his morning editions save one copy. This was now a ritual. He'd always buy one hundred and one copies, knowing that Pastor Lindhart would purchase the last remaining paper. The old man was definitely opposed towards being cooped up and incapacitated, but it hurt to walk on his ankle. His broken arm made it difficult to manage a crutch, and Mary was very attentive to her father. For all of his good nature and humor, Pastor Lindhart was obviously getting tired of being coddled.

Spot was just coming in the sanctuary door when he heard Pastor Lindhart and Mary were having what seemed to be a heated discussion back in the kitchen. The door back to the rectory was open, and Spot went towards it – tucking his cane into his suspenders.

"I don't want you to go alone, Mary." Pastor Lindhart said as Spot walked through the narrow hallway.

"Papa, you are in no shape to come with me." Mary protested in the closest things to disrespect Spot had ever heard come from her mouth.

When he came around the corner, he saw the two sitting at the kitchen table with Henry and Martha. The younger two were studying. Pastor Lindhart was the first to notice his entrance. Spot doffed his hat and nodded towards the older gentlemen, his eyes moving to Mary who had her back turned towards him in her seat. When she noticed her father's line of sight, she turned and noticed the newsboy as well. He gave her an enigmatic smile and she returned it in her own sweetly naïve way.

"Spot." Pastor Lindhart greeted warmly using his good arm to push himself into a standing posture.

"Spot!" Henry jumped up excitedly at the sight of his hero. His small face breaking into a huge smile. Martha's greeting was a roll of her eyes at her brother's admiration.

"Did you bring me my paper?" He asked, his good natured tone clearly stating her knew he did.

"Yes sir." Spot strode forward and placed the desired edition on the table in front of the man; intentionally leaning over Mary in the process.

"Mary, have you seen my spectacles?" Pastor Lindhart asked, picking up the paper and resuming his seat.

"They're upstairs." Mary replied, making moves to rise. As she did, Spot pulled out her chair from the table in a debonair gesture. Mary looked surprised, but rose and thanked him softly before demurely hurrying towards the stairs.

"Did you fight anyone today, Spot? Did you?" Henry asked as soon as Mary left the room. Pastor Lindhart had been trying to read the paper by holding it out in front of his face at different positions, but he stopped at his son's question.

"Henry, tisn't polite to ask such things!" Martha reprimanded. Her lessons were forgotten along with her brother's.

"He's been in fights afore!" Henry said and Spot shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Being in a fight probably wasn't the most Christian of pastimes. Could they understand the necessity of battle on the streets?

"That doesn't mean you need to be asking him about it." Martha said.

"I asked him a question, not you - _Martha_!" Henry's little face flushing with excitement.

"Tis a rude question!" Her small hands clenching on the table.

"Well Spot, have you been in a fight today?" Pastor Lindhart interrupted the squabbling duo. His warm eyes twinkling where Spot thought he'd see harsh judgment.

"Not today, sir." Spot answered with a hint of a smirk. He understood the Pastor's indulgence of his son's question was also a way to help put Martha in her place. Somewhere in these moments Mary had returned from her quest.

"But you do fight, don't you Spot?" Henry returned to his excitement. His previous conflict with Martha was already a thing of the past.

"I'm sure that if Spot fights he has his own reasons." Mary said, but her words weren't the ones of disapproval he had expected. He knew that Henry probably would repeat the stories he told. He should have expected the ones about fighting to be a favorite.

"Ah, thank you Mary." Pastor Lindhart said as she went around the table to give him his spectacles. Spot's gaze trailed her the entire way.

The headline was uninteresting today, something about the mayor's proposal for some tax associated matter. They were nothing but empty promises that were a hard sell for politician and newsie alike. As the older gentlemen skimmed through the paper - Spot took a seat the table as was custom. He'd sit and eat lunch – then the Pastor would tell him what needed to be done that day. The twins had returned to their studying. A Bible sat on the table between them; by the way they continuously looked at the manuscript and scribbled on the paper in front of them – they must have been practicing penmanship. A worthy pursuit, but it was an art lost to the newsboy.

"Are you hungry, Spot?" Mary asked; standing across from him.

"Yes, thanks."

It was past noon and he hadn't eaten besides the stale bread he'd stolen from a baker's cart. He was hungry and he smelled the fresh bread she must have baked earlier. The stale bread he'd had that morning tasted like rocks compared to hers.

He smiled at her and she bustled over to her stately cupboard. Spot noted the motion of her hips. She didn't move like the women who knew they were attractive, but there was an undeniably feminine sway in the way she walked. Her clothing was simple, but well fitted. The skirt showed the pleasant flair of hips from a cinched waist. She'd reached up to the top shelf in the cupboard, and his eyes traced the curve of her breasts hungrily. It had been weeks since he'd been with a woman. While Mary was far from the most attractive girl he'd ever seen – she was comely in her own plain way.

She set a plate in front of the news boy, and he smiled at her winsomely. He could have sworn he saw her blush. The fare was plain, cheese and salted pork between two slices of fresh bread with water for a drink, but it was good. The meals always were all modest, but filling. Spot had learned that thankfulness ranked high among this family. Mary took her seat between Spot and her father at the circular table.

"Papa," she started and the older man grunted as he read the paper. "I need to make the deliveries." she spoke evenly, but the old man set down his reading at her statement. "I'm sure that I'll be fine if I go alone with Martha and Henry. After all, I –" she was stopped short.

"No." Her father said. His mouth set. "I will go with you. It isn't safe for you to go by yourself." His expression was determined.

"But Papa, you aren't in any shape to walk the distance." Mary said. Her tone was born from concern, not rebellion.

"I am not a child. I've endured worse." He said and Mary's face looked pained.

"If yous don't mind me asking," Spot interrupted between bites. "What are yous talking about?" He inquired politely. Demanding answers wasn't something that was done here, either.

At his interjection, Pastor Lindhart looked at Spot at with revelation.

"Spot can escort you." The Pastor said. He laughed at Mary's surprised expression. "And I'll stay home."

"Yes!" Henry said. "Spot, do you think you could show me the lodging house or the docks or the-" Henry listed various locations he'd heard in the stories the newsboy had told.

"We're making deliveries." Martha said, rolling her eyes. "Not taking a tour."

"He could show us stuff, too." Henry said. "Couldn't you, Spot?" The boy turned his wide eyes towards his idol.

"Well, I'se not sure where we'se going." Spot said. All in all he was rather confused by the whole situation.

"We're going to deliver bread." Martha piped in quickly, obviously proud of her knowledge.

"Yeah, cause it's Friday." Henry added. His childish voice fluttered with British overtones.

"Yous deliver bread on Fridays?" Spot asked, not following the logic. The way Henry had stated it made him think this was quite the tradition.

"My Mary bakes bread for several families about the town." Pastor Lindhart said. "And we all deliver them together – but Mary doesn't feel I'm up for it." He gave her a playfully wounded look and Mary offered him a sympathetic smile.

"It would mean a lot if you would help." Mary said. "I think it would be best of Papa stayed here." She looked at him warmly.

"If anyone goes after us – Spot can soak them!" Henry said, not paying any attention to his work in front of him. Before Martha could say a word - Pastor Lindhart gave them both a pointed glance.

"I don't think anyone will try to 'soak' you." Pastor Lindhart chuckled. "My son seems much more adept to learning your vocabulary than his." He said to Spot with a chuckle; those merry brown eyes twinkling.

"Would you help us, Spot?" Mary asked and he turned his attention back to her.

"I'se here to work." Spot said and locked eyes with Mary before he added, "Is'll do anything ya ask me to." The double entendre was a loss to the girl, but she smiled broadly.

Spot finished his meal as the siblings prepared all of their needs for the deliveries. Pastor Lindhart was careful to explain the procedure – listing every stop on their route. Every neighborhood he listed was relatively safe; as far as Spot knew. The family didn't know exactly how much protection they were getting through his presence. Any ruffians that might have wanted to try something would think twice after seeing the Brooklyn leader accompanying them. In a few minutes Spot had finished eating, and the Lindhart children were ready to leave.

They left. All carried several loafs of bread in sacks Mary had made specifically for this purpose. It was a nice day. This time of year offered some of the few best days of the year in New York. The streets weren't too busy as most people had things to do. Men, women, and children alike were working. Martha and Henry walked in front of Mary and Spot, but never too far away. They both followed their normal pattern of squabbling and then making up only to pick a petty argument once more. Spot had learned to find amusement in this little show.

"Children have a way of forgiving and forgetting, don't they?" Mary posed the question near five minutes into their excursion.

Spot turned to look at her, and paused a moment. Forgiving and forgetting were two things that had never come easily to Spot - mainly because he had never had to use them. Being a leader showed him that swift, hard revenge was a powerful tool to keep oneself elevated among the boys. This was something that was passed on to the younger generations. If someone wronged you – you had the right to reciprocate the intention and further it. That was the way of the street. It was the way that respect was gained.

"Yeah, I guess they do." He said and smiled at her. There were a few more moments of silence before Spot asked: "These people buy there bread from ya every week?"

"Not every week, but with fair regularity." Mary said.

"It's alota bread." Spot adjusted the strap on his shoulder for comfort. "I'se going ta look like a prize fighter after carrying these sacks." He joked. Mary smiled and ducked her head shyly.

"We get a lot of orders – much more than we used to. Papa says it is a blessing –but he doesn't make the bread!" She said. Her own dry sense of humor showed and Spot chucked.

"Who buys alla it?" This was the closest thing to a flirtatious conversation he had engaged with her.

"A few from the congregation – then the other heard from them, I suppose. We're cheaper than most bakeries. It is my way of helping those who can't afford bread otherwise." She said.

"You likes helping folks, don'tcha?" Spot looked at her now and she smiled. It was a pure smile of honest joy.

"Yes." Her voice hadn't changed its pitch, but the tone carried an excitement he hadn't heard before now. "Yes, I do." She didn't hide behind any pretense or attempt to mask any part of her feelings.

She was what she was. Spot looked at her and felt envious towards her ability to be so free with others. The bout of envy was short lived as Henry and Martha both dropped back and entered into the conversation with their own.

"Tell Martha about the lion at the circus. She doesn't believe me." Henry said and adjusted his own small bag of bread.

Spot licked his lips and glanced at Mary. She was listening to him – he could tell. So he proceeded to explain the story of how the circus would come to Coney Island and there would be cages and cages of animals from across the world. He told a tale of a beast so big it could have swallowed him whole; with claws and teeth that could shred a man to pieces and a mane bigger than its head. He emphasized and elaborated. In the end it made his story much like the headlines when he called them out – much more interesting than they actually were. Hands made exaggerated motions and he even pulled out his cane for further effect. All in all he gave them quite a show and they seemed to have enjoyed it.

"I told you so." Henry said, but Martha seemed too enthralled in the idea of a large cat to care if her brother was right or not.

"Next time the circus in town yous should go see." Spot said.

"We've never been to Coney. We never get to have any fun." Henry said. His lamentation filled with the injustice only a child can feel.

"That's because tisn't safe." Martha said, but it was clear that after Spot's story she was disappointed in her inability to visit such a magical place.

Henry didn't have any objections to her statements. Spot's brow furrowed. Perhaps for a straight laced family like the Lindharts Coney wasn't the best place, but Spot hadn't considered it unsafe. If you knew where to avoid it wasn't unsafe at all. Lots of families went there, especially when there was a special attraction in town.

It wasn't fair that they hadn't been able to go to Coney and see the hotels and the different amusements that were there. Between the horse races and the traveling acts that came through there was always something to do on Coney Island. The Brooklyn and Coney boroughs were almost always on excellent terms, and now was no exception. It was then that the idea struck him.

"Who wants to go to Coney Island with me?"

* * *

"Ireland!" I heard my voice being called from across the street, but I didn't look up. I didn't want to talk to anyone. "Ireland!" The voice came again with more force this time and I raised my head.

It was Spot.

My heart started racing as I stood to meet him. He was coming towards me quickly. His pace and stance were intimidating, but they held nothing to the intensity of his expression on his face. It was as though a thunderstorm had been sucked into his eyes and now brewed there without control. I felt my mouth fall open slightly at the power radiating from him and I straightened. My instincts told me to draw away from this dangerous creature but I couldn't. The thoughts in my mind throbbed as wildly as my pulse. Everything moved so quickly I was unable to process any of it.

Spot cut across the street quickly and grabbed my upper arms forcefully. He grabbed me with hands that hurt but I was unable to do anything about it. With him in this close of proximity I could feel pain and anger radiating off of him in thick waves. My breath caught in my throat as I felt the heat from his eyes fall to my open mouth before coming back up to my eyes. Those stormy eyes wandered my features and his face hovered teasingly close to mine.

I knew that I shouldn't let him do this to me, but I wanted this so badly. I wanted him to touch me, to want me, like he used to. We had been so good together and he had to know that somewhere behind those gorgeous eyes. He knew that I wouldn't refuse him. Already my body was softened and ready to mold to his. I wanted this, even though I shouldn't have, I wanted this badly.

His mouth was on mine. It took me a moment to comprehend the rush of sensations that swept through me at the contact. Those lips I remembered so well moved sensuously against mine. His tongue didn't ask permission because he knew he already had it as he plundered the depths of my mouth. It was a hard, desperate kiss that I couldn't help but return. I felt the pleasant wilting sensation I always felt when he touched me like this. My world was nothing more than a dark dizzying blur and Spot was the other thing that existed in it.

He let go of my biceps and let his hands move down my torso to my hips as he pressed against me – pinning me against the wall. His hands skimmed up my sides again and barely caressed the curves of my breasts. I groaned against his mouth and I knew what was coming. How I had missed this desire. His kiss set me fire in every imaginable place of my body. I never wanted it to end.

When his mouth left mine it was to work its way down my jaw. My head lolled back against the brick wall behind me. For an instant I was still completely lost in the wonder of it all – then I opened my eyes and gasped at our surroundings. We were still out in public!

"Spot." I said as my hands came up to dig into his dirty hair as hands had already undone the two top buttons of my shirt. "Not here." I managed breathily as his tongue slipped out across the top curve of my breast.

His eyes came to mine after he planted a searing kiss in the crook of my neck. His hot breath played along my skin. Those eyes almost made me forget why I had stopped him in the first place, but I could still faintly hear people on the crowded street around us.

"Some where else." I murmured huskily as I stared into his eyes – already hungry for his next kiss.

In that instant I saw an infinite pain in those stormy blue orbs. It was something that ran too deep for me to even begin to understand. I saw a boy who was searching for an answer that just wasn't there, but I wanted to help him find it anyway.

That's why I didn't protest when he picked me up in his strong arms or when his mouth came crashing back down to mine. That's why I let him take me into a place I didn't recognize and didn't care to. That's why I didn't complain when I lost my shirt and then my pants. That's why I lay back and lost myself in the fires that consumed me whenever we touched. I let him do this because I love him.

I always have.

* * *

**A/N:** I feel for Ireland… I'm such a jerk to my characters.


	13. Capability

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, the Lindharts, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: Sorry it has been so long. I realize that I need to stop putting time limits on myself to get things like stories done because then I just burnout and don't want to write them anymore. Also – it doesn't help that I have about five other stories I'm working on just because I can. I need to get better at managing my time and controlling my muses.

**Warning**: PG (slight sexuality and language)

**Chapter 13**: Capability

* * *

Time slipped past in its fluid manner. Snaps still sat across from me with her smirk plastered across her dirty face. Her tongue tucked itself neatly into one cheek with her chin tilted upward, arms crossed over her chest, and the chair lent back onto two of its legs. She looked every bit of a cat who had just feasted upon cream. It was moments that she appeared this way in which she looked every inch Spot's relation.

It was rather embarrassed how enthralled I was in her story. She may be an uneducated street urchin, but the girl in front of me was every bit a capable story teller.

"Who won the bet?" I said.

"Ya think I'se going to tell ya that now?" Snaps said with a flick of her eyebrow. I

"It is part of the story, is it not?" I ignored her irritation.

"Yeah it is, but if ya wanna know what happened ta Spot ya gotta listen ta the whole story, and that's only the beginning." Snaps said.

She was took her sweet time with this whole ordeal and it was driving me mad with curiosity.

She gave me a look that let me know she didn't appreciate my interruption but that she very much enjoyed her position of power over me. I assumed that she found great joy in dangling things like this in front of people as a parent dangles a golden watch in front of their infant. Reigning in my persistent need to know the answers I took a deep breath. If I was going to hear the rest of the story I would have to indulge this creature in front of me no matter what her method. I _did_ want to know the story and I wanted it in full. This process was pins and needles, however.

"I apologize." I said. "Please continue." I gave her back the spotlight and she took it readily. The smirk which spread over her features like melted butter was now as familiar as her brother's.

"Well then." She put all four legs of the chair back on the ground with a bang which startled me. "I guess I'sell keep telling." She clasped her hands between her knees and I waited breathlessly.

I didn't have to wait for long.

* * *

Spot had never told the Lindharts about the way the boroughs of the newsie world worked. He had never told them, not even Henry, that he was one of the most respected leaders of them all. They were so unaccustomed to the ways to the ways of the streets that the idea wouldn't mean much to them anyway. On top of that, Spot wasn't sure if it was in the best of ideas to reveal his position of power. Though the Lindharts weren't judgmental – he knew that his status of a street rat had to impose some sort of prejudice in their minds. It was human nature. So how would they react if they knew that he was the king of the urchins?

They had managed to deliver the bread in what Martha noted as record time. This was due to a trick Spot showed them: hitching rides on passing carts and wagons. Initially, the concept that they had never done something like this escaped Spot. Naturally, Henry couldn't have been more thrilled with the idea. It was the fairer sex which had their reservations. It took him three or four tries before Martha and Mary would even attempt mounting. They both were surprisingly quick studies.

"Do the cart owners mind the extra passengers?" Mary had asked as they rode on the back edge of a flatbed wagon half full of wooden crates. Her cheeks had a pretty flush in the springtime sun as she looked up at Spot from her seat next to him. Henry and Martha were both contentedly sitting on the other side of Spot enjoying their adventure.

"Only if they knows we'se here – and sometimes even then they don't care. We ain't hurting nobody - think of it as there way of helping us." He shrugged off her concern and instead noticed the few freckles which danced across the bridge of her nose. She still looked slightly nervous at the idea of doing something wrong, but she relaxed. The truth was that most wagon masters _did_ care – but she didn't need to know that.

In fact, every ride that they took she relaxed a little bit more until it appeared that she was enjoying herself. Every time they found need to dismount Spot made great cares to aid Mary. He'd swing off and grab her waist - quickly hoisting her off directly after him. Since the wagon was often still moving this rough and tumble style dismount wasn't questionable. As always, she was polite and thanked him but pulled away quickly. Henry and Martha found enjoyment jumping from the back of the various vehicles. Their constant bickering took a new turn with the novel pastime. In all honesty Spot didn't understand why how many different carriages or wagons they had been on mattered. To the twins, however, it seemed to. It was near five o'clock when they had finished all of their deliveries.

"We've finished almost two hours earlier than we ever have!" Martha exclaimed once Mary had informed her of the time. The braided pigtails she wore bounced with her excitement.

"So can we go to Coney – can we?" Henry asked as he pushed past his twin and stood in front of Spot, pleading. The boy had been asking after this ever since Spot had brought up the possibility. While Mary hadn't said no – she hadn't said yes either.

"Henry," Martha stood with her arms akimbo. "It's 'may we', not 'can we'."

"Well then may we?" Henry righted himself without dispute (an obvious sign that he was desperate for the trip). His big brown eyes looked wanting up at the taller boy. Spot found it amusing that he didn't ask his sister. The experienced lips of Brooklyn curled into a smirk.

"Why don'tcha ask your sister?" Spot tipped head towards Mary and it took Henry only instants to ask the same question of his oldest sibling.

There was a pause. It was only the slightest hesitation, but Spot looked over at the eldest church mouse to see her looking back at him. In that moment there was an exchange without words, and the weariness he'd seen traces of earlier were now turned more towards exhaustion. It was then that Spot saw how very young she was and how much responsibility she had on her small shoulders. Through caring for her two younger siblings, and in many respects the whole church's congregation, she didn't have the luxury of time for herself. She couldn't let go, and she couldn't relax. She was just as trapped as he was. The eye contact had been brief – but when she turned away Spot was left with the unsettling revelation.

"We need to go home to father. He needs our help." Mary said. "Perhaps some other day," She comforted to the two forlorn faces before her.

Spot was slightly peevish towards the fact that his plans to go to Coney had been squashed, but he knew that there would be another time. Even with the two hours they had shaved off of their bread delivery time it wasn't nearly enough to a lot for a full trip to Coney. The trip there and back would take an hour alone, and that only if they made good time. That wasn't the only good time that he was thinking about, however.

It had been three weeks since he had touched another girl and it wasn't from lack of opportunity. Winning this bet with Snaps was one of the most important things in front of him at this moment – if not the most important. Paying his sister's board for a year was high price to pay simply because he couldn't bed a dame, but he wasn't going to suffer that humiliation. The excess sexual energy that was coursing through his system was driving him crazy. His focus on Mary was only intensified by the hunger he hadn't sated. Walking next to her now in the afternoon heat – he could feel the palms of his hands itch with the want to touch her. He didn't, but he wanted to. The progress he was making on the physical front was sluggish at best. However – he felt that once he was able to cross the line between friendly and intimate things would progress much more quickly.

Things were capable of moving much more quickly after that indeed.

* * *

There was a knock at my door and Snaps stopped near mid-sentence. Her wide eyes shifted towards me without trust. We had the same worried thought together: Spot. Though I couldn't imagine him coming again this soon after our last few encounters – Spot was just unpredictable enough to worry. If he saw Snaps here there would be problems I'm sure I couldn't even begin to understand. The information Snaps had bestowed upon me thus far obviously had been told in confidence from some sort of compulsion I hadn't questioned. Neither of us had anticipated a visitor, it could have been anyone, but it was clear she wasn't going to take any chances. Without a word Snaps stood and moved towards the door to my bedroom.

She disappeared as the second knock came. This time it was much more forceful and agitated. Hurriedly I went to the door.

"I'm coming." I said. I could hear the strain in my voice. I was no actress. This, more often than not, turned out to be a very unfortunate thing.

"Who is there?" I said to the pounding on the opposite side. My heart hammered inside my chest as I waited for a reply as I stood right in front of my door.

"Clinton." a strong male baritone rang through the wooden barrier distinctly. It wasn't Spot. It was my brother! "Blast it! Open the door Alice!" He hit the door once more and I could tell that he was very upset. Though relieved that it wasn't Spot on the other side of the door – my heart was still racing.

With shaking hands I undid the locks and opened the door. There on the other side stood my brother Clinton and his comrade Samuel. They were both dressed in full suits, apparently here for an unannounced social call.

Clinton frowned upon me living alone and working in a ladies' boutique and insisted that I come and live with him and his family. That arrangement didn't suit me, however. I enjoyed my freedom and Clinton's house was crowded enough without me.

They had paid me visits before, Clinton and Samuel, but never as such a surprise. The adrenaline of potential discovery was an exhilarating and not often felt feeling for me. Pushing back my hair with an anxious hand I gave them both my most gracious smile though I'm sure it showed my complete relief. My relief was short lived when neither one of them returned my smile. Clinton, my brother, who often was in a foul temper stood quite solemnly with Samuel in a stance quite similar.

A horrible sinking feeling built inside my stomach.

"Clinton, Samuel." I extended a shaking hand and felt my smile falter nervously. "What brings you to my home?" Clinton respectfully took my hand even as he pressed past me into my apartment. His eyes scanned my meager belongings with cold discernment and I knew something was terribly wrong.

"I'll spare you the formalities, Alice." His voice was tense as I followed him further into the main room of my apartment. Samuel followed us both and shut the door firmly behind him. "I've been informed by your landlord that you have entertained gentlemen overnight." Clinton looked me in the eye as he asked this question and I felt as though someone had struck my in the stomach.

A heavy exhalation slipped out of my mouth and I know that I must have looked a perfect picture of horror. I felt all of the color drain from my face. The ramifications of his question circled within my mind. My body went gold even as my face grew hot. He was asking about Spot. How could he have possibly known about Spot?

"S-She was clearly mistaken." My eyes darted around the room nervously – first to Clinton, then to Samuel, and then they moved tellingly to my tightly closed bedroom door. A blush crept up my neck.

"I hoped it wasn't true, but I saw a gentleman come yesterday when I came to call. I thought that you might enjoy an evening stroll, but it seems you were – _occupied_." Samuel said. The stress on the last word made me flinch. I hoped it was only inwardly, but knew it probably wasn't.

Samuel had called regularly for the past two months, but his visits had always been planned. Had he been supposed to come yesterday? I couldn't remember. Though, yesterday hadn't been an anticipated visit from Spot either. Unfortunately, yesterday they seemed to have similar schedules. My mind raced over all of the possible excuses I could give but I couldn't think of a single decent one.

"You let him in and yet when I knocked – no one answered." Samuel's face was tense.

I felt trapped. I suppose it was only a matter of time before I was discovered in this clever little affair, but I didn't think it would be right now. Like a child with discovered doing something wrong, however, excuses and lies came readily to my mind. Each of them was improbable and more ridiculous than the last. I really was a horrendous liar.

"There has been no one here." I said.

The words rolled off of my tongue defensively, but it was clear by the two expressions staring back at me that they didn't believe me.

"Then why is there a place setting for two?" My brother pointed to the table and my mouth ran dry.

There on that tiny wooden table by the window sat two plates and two glasses. One was for Snaps and one was my own, and together that made two. My mind was a complete blank. The alibi that I had thought to be airtight suddenly had more holes in it than I could imagine. I felt my mouth moving, but there were no sounds coming. It was as though I was trying to force a reason for this occurrence to come from my mouth even as I had absolutely nothing in my mind by sheer panic. When a sound finally came – it wasn't one I had wanted, anticipated, or created.

A loud thump came from behind the closed door to my bedroom and the panic I had felt before became terror in a single instant. Even though it wasn't Spot the idea that there was someone in my apartment, my _bedroom_, was enough to send wild imaginations through my mind. My brother was a violent kind, and I saw murder in his eyes at that sound. Before I could say a word – the two men were one their way to my bedroom with me trailing helplessly behind them.

"You can't go in there! That's my bedroom – it's private!" I said, but it did nothing to slow the determined motions of the masculine duo. My stomach tied in knots.

It was on the moment when they reached my door but hadn't yet opened it that I had thousands of images of what could happen flash in front of my in a dizzying blur. Implication after implication of what it would mean when they found Snaps in there shot off of the walls of my mind one after another. Would they believe me to be attracted to other women? Would they understand if I explained that she was a friend – an acquaintance? It probably would be more probable if I introduced her as someone who was helping me with some moving of heavy furniture with her ragged male clothing. These crazy hypotheses flittered like a hummingbird from flower to flower, and then my door was open.

Samuel and Clinton were the first to enter with me quickly at their heels. I was saying things that didn't make sense – half-baked excuses for something I wasn't sure I needed to excuse. However, when I stumbled in behind the men I hurriedly scanned the room and saw no one. No one! In the instant that it took me to process the overwhelming relief that Snaps was no where to be seen – I was re-gripped by the terror that she might be hiding somewhere within my quarters. The places for refuge were slim and it seemed that my brother had taken all of that into account and didn't bother to search under my bed or in my wardrobe. Instead he went straight for the window and my heart went straight to the floor as he swore loudly.

The window was wide open. I never opened my windows. Clinton crawled out onto the fire escape. It was obviously an awkward process because of his dress suit, but he managed it anyway. Samuel was close behind him.

"Get back here!" Clinton shouted as he landed on the fire escape outside my window and I knew that Snaps must have climbed out and descended the rusty structure.

Quickly I moved over to Samuel's side to see if Snaps had made her escape. I spotted her just as she jumped off the bottom of the fire escape and literally hit the ground running. She was a very fast runner and my brother didn't even attempt to descend the fire escape as she had to chase her. In the back of my mind I was dismayed by the fact that you couldn't see her thick braid down her back and that she looked very much like a man.

"Dammit." Clinton said. He turned to come back inside.

"Aren't you going to go after him?" Samuel asked and my brother shot him a glare that I remembered from when we were much younger.

Instantly he revoked the question and I could feel the anger surging off of my brother in waves. The difficulty he had reentering my apartment through the narrow window didn't help the matter. I stepped back from the opening to make way for him and placed myself much closer to the door out of my bedroom. Once my brother was inside and had adjusted his suit to his liking there was a very awkward and uncomfortable silence.

Both pairs of eyes shot to me and I suddenly felt very small. I'd been afraid before, but this was different. There was a raging distrust in my brother's face and Samuel looked disgusted. A muscle in Clinton's jaw was twitching in sync with my pounding heart. Inwardly I knew that they wouldn't lay a finger on me, but I stepped away in a cowardly movement to avoid their piercing gazes. My heart went to my throat when Clinton countered my step with one of his own.

"If I ever see or hear about that man coming back here, I swear on our mother's grave, I will kill him." Clinton said. Every word was ground out with a deliberation that let me know this wasn't something to take lightly.

He stormed out of my room – brushing past me forcefully. Samuel followed, but when he did he gave me a suggestive look that made my stomach churn. Did he think me an easy woman now? Would he take advantage of me? The very idea sent chills of revulsion throughout my body. While I liked Samuel I had no desire to become intimate with him on any level. The look on his face when he brushed past me let me know that he was very interested in the idea.

Their exit was much like they had come – abrupt and startling.

My mind was still humming as I made my way to my bed and slowly sat down. A shaking hand found its way to my hair and absently touched it to make sure it was all in place. Then it ran down my front as if to check that I was there – solid and whole. I trembled so badly I feared that I would break apart at any moment. Swallowing a large mouthful of nothing I looked around my room. Everything was where it was supposed to be. The door that my brother had opened stayed that way. On tremulous legs I stood and moved to the window.

I saw my brother and Samuel both make their way down the street in the same direction Snaps had run. The look that my brother had given me chilled my heart while the look that Samuel had given me made me sick. If he tried to violate me I was certain that I would die.

Absently I latched the lock on the sill. My eyes roamed the street where Snaps disappeared into the crowd and I prayed that she wouldn't be found by my brother or Samuel. I also prayed that Spot wouldn't come because I knew he was capable of terrible violence and jealousy. It wasn't for Spot that I feared, however. It was for my brother. For as much as my brother was capable of the terrible – Spot was capable of the unimaginable.

* * *

**A/N**: If you are an anonymous user, I'd like to respond to your reviews – so please leave your e-mail address! I like to be in contact with my readers. Also, for all of you, I apologize about the long break between updates. I am a full time, honor roll, college student, and work anywhere from 20-40 hours a week. There just aren't enough hours in the day! I promise to update when I can though.


	14. Progress

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, the Lindharts, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: Where have I been? Well, I survived finals, got my 4.0, wrote another short  
Newsies" fiction (_Reflux_, and it is highly recommended), and revised every chapter of this story. Chapters 1-9 were _**heavily**_ revised because of the two year gap in my writing this story. Mainly I fixed some character stuff and fleshed out the story a bit. 10-13 underwent minor revision (mainly the removal of the over the top "New Yawk" accents). I kept bits and pieces of them, but there were places where it was distracting from the flow of the story and I removed them. I don't want to insult the reader's intelligence by assume that they don't know what a New York accent sounds like, and if they don't I don't want to slow them down by having to process what it is the characters are saying.

**Warning**: PG-13 (language, sexuality)

**Chapter 14**: Progress

* * *

Damn broad. I nearly broke my ankle jumping off of that fire escape. That damn window was so loud. The only good thing about the situation was at least it wasn't Spot. That bastard half-brother of mine would have chased me down. Then I would have had to explain why I was there. There was no way that would have ended well.

I don't need Spot's approval to live my life, but when your brother runs Brooklyn it is best to stay on his good side. I'd had the shit beat out of me by Spot before in a fight, and that had been a few years back. Sure, I'd deserved it – but if he could beat me as a skinny little punk kid I didn't want to imagine the damage he could cause now. He may be a prick but I needed him. We all needed him, and he knows it.

I don't think they followed me but I kept running. It sounded like there had been two of them, but I could have been wrong. Hot damn I was not going back to that girl's place again. Hopefully I'd done enough to keep her quiet. What I'd told her along with the way that man sounded when he called after me told me chances were good she was too scared to go out looking for the rest of the story. That man sounded like he would rip my head off my shoulders if he had the chance. That is if he could catch me.

My blood hummed. Part of me wanted a good fight. A hard run mixed with the memories I'd stirred up made my insides turn with agitation. I wasn't sure if I needed a fight or a good hard drink, but I would have been happy with both.

* * *

Chores were done. The mess from supper was cleaned. The twins were upstairs supposedly finishing their required reading for the day before going to bed. Pastor Lindhart had retired earlier than his children. The laudanum which he was taking for the pain made him tired. He never complained but it was clear that the fall had left him much worse for ware. He never said so much as a word about his discomfort, and he was improving, but the awkwardly stiff way he moved told much more than he did of the pain he must feel. It was only this week that he was able to ascend the stairs to his traditional place of rest instead of the cot set up in the kitchen.

That left the two, Spot and Mary, in the kitchen. The sun, though out longer now in the warming months, was starting to wane. There were no words between them. It wasn't unnatural for him to be there now. In fact it would have almost been strange to have him absent. Silence wasn't uncomfortable anymore. Spot had come to expect it in many situations.

He had a seat at the table as did she. A lamp sat on the table, but it wasn't lit. Mary's hands worked swiftly at patching clothes and darning socks. A basket of sewing tools rested on the table along side the unlit lamp. Another large basket sat at her feet full of things that required her attention. Spot rocked back on two legs of the chair and just watched her. Her hands moved swiftly.

Spot's eyes watched those hands. A silver thimble guarded her thumb against the assault of the needle. His steely orbs followed the long cream colored sleeves of her shirt as they would wave ever so slightly with ever move of her hands. Those arms ran up to her shoulders which held her gracefully even while performing busywork. The fabric from her collar gave way to the smooth, pale skin of the column of her neck which didn't go unnoticed by the boy. He had dreams about the curve of that neck. He couldn't remember a neck he'd wanted to touch more desperately in his entire life.

As his gaze burned up to her face he took in the curves and planes of her features. The plain white cap remained in its proper place covering her hair. Spot wondered what it looked like when it wasn't pulled back so restrictively.

His mind flashed back to the one time he had seen her without her cap, when her father had fallen from the ladder and she'd offered her cap to stop his bleeding. That day seemed ages ago, but that image was branded in his mind. A familiar sensation tightened in the back of his throat as he continued to watch her. The desire to touch her grew stronger with every day that he was there. It took monumental amounts of self control not to rip that little white cap from her head and dig his fingers into her hair until it was loose and tumbling past her shoulders. He wondered if it was soft as it looked.

Swallowing heavily – he pressed back the feeling. It never escaped him that they were alone. They'd been alone before, but it was a rare enough occasion that he knew not to waste it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and he set all four legs of the chair on the floor. She didn't look up from her work at the noise and he wondered what she was thinking. He was thinking of things he wanted to do to her that probably would send him straight to hell. Standing Spot walked around the table and sat in the chair next to her.

This got her attention.

She looked up at him. In her hands she held a man's shirt and was sewing back on a few buttons that had gone astray. The shirt wasn't one that looked familiar. In fact it looked to be a few sizes too large for her father. She must have been mending it for someone else. Spot learned that money was very much a short coming in this family, and he had come to accept the fact that they outsourced their abilities. More true was that they outsourced Mary's abilities. She mended, baked, cleaned, sewed, ran errands, and still managed to keep the church and her small family. All of this was done without complaint and without expectation of keeping any of the money for her gain. It was all as unselfish as you could expect a single person to be.

Even though she acted older and had all of the responsibilities of a full grown woman – Spot knew she was only sixteen. He'd never asked her age, but wondered how young she had been when she had started taking care of her family. Had she forgotten how young she was? Surely she longed for something different from time to time and that is what he intended to provide for her – something different.

Without a word, Spot grabbed the shirt and put it in the wicker basket at her feet, and then took her hand. The feel of her small cool fingers in his made his blood go hot. He was careful to not let his face show the electric pulse that came from purposeful contact with her.

"What are you doing?" She asked.

"Giving you a break." He smiled and pulled her up from her seat and led her to the back door of the rectory.

He moved quickly and without hesitation. She offered no resistance until he grabbed his cap and opened the door to the outside. It was then that she stopped moving with him.

"Where are we going?" She asked.

It was clear that she had mentally caught up with him and was not willing to blindly follow his lead. Their hands were still joined though he stood in front of her and twisted back to see her. Her hand felt incredibly small and delicate in his large rougher palm. Her eyes were wide and wary as they watched him. Rakishly he grinned and pulled his gray cap onto his head. The shadow shaded his eyes, but the lopsided smile was still in perfect view. It was a reassuring smile to settle the hesitation he saw in her wide eyes.

"It's a surprise, but we gotta move or we'll miss it." He said, but he didn't pull on her hand. He wouldn't force her to come, he wanted her to make that choice herself.

This was the most abrupt behavior he ever showed around the Lindhart family. He tried to always been calm and predictable with them until this moment where he was taking a chance.

"Mary. Trust me. You're gonna love it." There was a flickering in her eyes that said she wanted to come but something held her back.

"I have things I need to finish." She said, looking back at her pile of sewing. "And Martha and Henry might need me…" Her voice drifted off tiredly and she looked back towards the stairwell which led to where Martha and Henry were upstairs in their beds.

He realized that he was losing her to the tug of responsibility. At this Spot turned around and faced her fully. He kept a strong grip on her captive hand and drew it closer to him so it practically touched his chest. This in turn brought Mary into a tighter proximity. She'd been so distracted in her unreasonable dedication to her family that she didn't resist the pull. She stumbled forward a few steps and her head whipped back towards his. They were still a good foot apart but her eyes grew two sizes larger at the new situation.

He held her eyes with his, a little smile flirting on his full lips, until he thought he saw a slight flush creeping onto her skin. It wasn't long before she ducked her head bashfully. This was, as far as intimate encounters went, as far as Spot had dared press his limits since the night he kissed her forehead.

"Martha and Henry will be fine." He said and she looked up at him. "I gives ya my word that Is'll get ya back soon." He spoke softly, hypnotically, as he stared into her eyes and he could see she wanted to come. "I just wanna show ya something." There was a fleeting trace of suspicion in her eyes, but the starch was melting out of her frame. "Just come with me." He stepped back from her and pulled her hand gently but she stayed firm in her place. "Please?"

Begging wasn't in his nature but he knew the power of asking a woman as if she were in charge. He looked at her with his best pleading look which had melted many hearts before hers and he felt the last of the steel leave her shoes. Maybe she wasn't oblivious to his charms.

"We'll be back soon." She said and she took one step forward at his prompting. Her eyes never left his.

"Yes." He nodded seriously, and then smiled. "Now come on." He kept her hand firmly in his as he led her out into the alley and then shut the door behind them.

Once the door was shut he turned and started their journey. He guided her quickly through the streets and byways. There were no more words through the venture. Mary followed behind him with her hand tucked securely in his with no objections or complaints. She managed to keep a fairly good pace which was important for the means of their excursion. Spot made sure to look back and check on her throughout their journey through the nearly empty streets. Not many people were out and about on the late May evening, which was understandable. With work tomorrow many had already turned in for the night even though there was still a slice of daylight to be had. That slice of daylight was very precious to the mission.

It was near ten minutes after they had set out on their venture that Spot pulled her into an alleyway along side a building. When he made for the fire escape on the side of the brick edifice Mary stopped in her tracks. He looked at her questioningly and she had an expression of confusion on her face as well.

"Where are we going?" She asked and Spot was surprised that she hadn't asked it earlier.

"We'se almost there." Spot said. They were so close to meeting his goal that he could practically taste it. "Just at the top of this building. Come on." He told her and pulled on her hand once more. She followed but her steps were hesitant.

He had her go first so he could catch her if she tripped. As she went up the first ladder, however, he realized he hadn't calculated the fact that this would provide an ultimate peepshow. As she climbed he was afforded several glimpses up her skirt. Physical hunger raged in the pit of his stomach.

The first look was purely accidental. It was a flash of creamy pale skin shaped in the alluring curve of her calf. The celibacy he'd endured caused his body to respond automatically to the sight. He could not remember the last time he'd been so turned on by a leg. A leg that wasn't even offered to him as temptation or intended to allure him heated his blood hotter than any other display he'd been shown. He marveled at the color of her skin, the curve and flex of the muscle, and the delicate size.

By the third time she had accidentally flashed him her legs he had to look away or else he would have a very hard, painful situation.

It wasn't a long journey to the top. Spot was exceedingly glad when they had reached it. If this girl had been different would have grabbed her and kissed her senseless right then and there. But she wasn't that kind of girl. The views of skin were purely accidental. Everything in him though wanted to hold her body against his and feel every contour mold against him.

They'd made it just in time.

The building wasn't exceptionally tall, but Spot knew that it was tall enough. On the ground in Brooklyn, where streets were crowded and buildings were cramped together, there was rarely a view of the skyline. Here on this building, however, there was just enough of a vantage point to serve its purpose. It wasn't remarkable by any stretch of the imagination, but it was beautiful.

They reached the top just as the most brilliant colors painted the sky. Reds, oranges, and yellows smeared the horizon. The majestic skyscape caught onto the wispy clouds which hung in the sky. The fiery hues quickly shifted to more muted tones as darkness pressed down on them. A deep twilight purple wove its way across the top as if to chase the brighter colors down towards the sinking sun. The blazing ball of fire was hidden from view by the other structures.

Neither one said a word as they watched the colors morph and change. For the moment everything was calm. To Mary – Spot's purpose was now clear: He'd wanted to show her the sunset. However Spot knew that his intentions were anything but wholly noble. This was a matter of seduction and timing. Even if they were alone in her home he knew that there were rules there. Here she was more on his terms. Here he was the one who wrote the rules.

They weren't touching, but he was standing closer to her than he dared do in her kitchen or around the church. She stood in front of him at the edge of the roof watching the last of the colors fade to black. He was directly behind her so close that he could almost feel the heat of her body. They were so close that her back brushed his shirt when she sighed. She didn't notice, but he felt an uncomfortable tingle run through his whole body.

He wanted to touch her. Both of his palms were itching to rip off her cap and stroke her hair. As he stood this close and looked down at her body – it wasn't a long stretch of the imagination how every one of her curves would feel pressed against his body. He'd known enough women to have a good concept of how they felt, how they responded to touch, and how much he wanted one right this moment.

Spot had so completely focused on restraining himself he didn't realize that the sunlight had completely faded and been lost to the night until Mary turned around. Due to his unexpectedly close proximity she collided with him. It took him completely off guard and they both were set off balance. Instinctively he reached out and gripped her small waist firmly between his hands. She reached for him and ended up clinging to his biceps. Those small hands were surprisingly strong in their hold.

They stood still, highlighted in the first beams of moonglow. It was just enough to catch Mary's eyes looking as much like glass plates reflecting back up at him. If it had been lighter he would have sworn she was blushing because she ducked her head quickly and tried to step back. Because of the ledge surrounding the roof this proved difficult and she ended up ramming her backside against it and distancing herself less than a few inches.

"Careful." Spot said. He barely recognized his own voice.

He resisted the urge to clear his throat. She looked up at him now and he knew that at this moment she was vulnerable. Right now he could kiss her, and she would let him. Her could lean down and touch his lips so gently to hers his body ached just at the idea of it. But he wouldn't. Kissing her right then would have been pleasurable, but also foolish. All of his time building her trust would be lost on impulse.

When he did kiss her it wouldn't be on a dark rooftop where he had led her away from her family. It would be in a place where she felt comfortable and wasn't trapped between his body and falling off a building. If he kissed her then she would see him for what he really was.

He let go of her. Both of his hands released her waist and stepped back. She came off the wall. She was innocent she wasn't stupid. There was a primal dance which happened between a man and a woman which was unexplainable and instinctual. Spot knew by her reaction that he wasn't the only one who felt the repercussions of their contact. While he understood what it was – she might still be too naïve to grasp it in entirety, but he would give her time. Tonight he'd made progress. He wanted her. Hopefully she knew that now.

"We need to go back. I don't want to be missed." Mary said. Her voice frustratingly unchanged

"Yeah. Let's go." He reached out for her in the dark and found that she had already extended her hand for him to guide her.

The trip down was less tempting than the one going up. Partially due to the lack of light and partially that he was thinking about everything and anything besides pinning Mary to the wall at the bottom and having his way with her. His need was eating him alive.

Spot led her home through the streets and byways like he had before, but this time at a slower pace. They weren't racing against time like they had been before. He'd practically dragged her along with him, but this time he still held her hand and there was no dragging involved. It was a protective gesture and he knew that she could pull her hand away if she wanted to, but she didn't.

"Here ya go." Spot said as they finally reached the rectory.

They'd been silent the entire journey back. In his time with the Lindharts Spot had learned that Mary was a woman of very few words. She was quiet, introspective, and polite, but by no means was she cool or aloof. There was warmth to her that he hadn't found in other women. The girls he knew all had that softness bled out of them long ago, but Mary was different. Mary still had a compassion and peace that he lacked and, at times, envied.

Now when she let go of his hand Spot felt a strange separation from that tranquility she provided. Or perhaps it was the loss of physical contact, no matter how small, that made his body cry out against it. He needed to be careful. He didn't want her to leave, but knew he must. His physical cravings were too strong to be alone with her another minute.

"Thank you." Was all Mary said as she opened the door and went into the rectory.

Spot didn't follow and she turned to shut the door – but not before Spot caught it in his hand and kept her from doing so. Again those dark eyes looked up at him cautiously. How could she be so openly warm but still so guarded?

"Wait." He said. He struggled for the words he wanted. "I just wanted to let ya know that I didn't wanna scare ya or anything tonight. I just wanted ya to have a little fun." He shifted legs. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. Nothing he said sounded right.

She watched him during his little speech with a soft expression and an even softer smile. Though both held the same door they weren't close – Spot had made sure of that. He knew his limits and he wasn't stupid. Right now he was too vulnerable and she was too willing – even though she didn't know it.

"I did have fun." She said.

It was the same voice and expression she had when she had told him about helping people. There was an extreme peace about her that he couldn't grasp for the life of him. The supreme contentedness irritated as much as it intrigued. Spot didn't dwell on his annoyance though. Instead he only smiled at her. He smiled his best heart-melting, knee-weakening, pulse-racing smile, and before she turned to go inside he could have sworn he saw her blush.

With a sigh he turned and walked back in the direction of the lodging house. He knew that he needed to figure out a way to let Mary have more fun again, but right now more than anything, he needed to get off.

* * *

There are two types of people in the world: The people who act on their anger and the people who don't. I tend to be the person who does. Sometimes I get so fucking pissed that I could punch my fist into a brick wall, but I'm not stupid. At least most of the time when I'm mad I'm not stupid. Normally I would either beat the hell out of whoever pissed me off or I would get Spot to buy me a hard drink. The problem with this was that I couldn't beat up the person who mad me angry and Spot was no where to be found.

I needed a place to let my anger simmer down from a boil to a more controlled level – so I went to the lodging house. No one should be in the bunkroom so I figured it would be a safe place to hide until my temper had cooled. I'd taken back routes to avoid seeing anyone I knew. It was near eleven-thirty in the morning which meant most of the boys would either be selling or out having a good time before the afternoon edition came out for sale.

I went inside and up the stairs. When I entered the bunkroom I saw something unexpected. There, a few bunks down, sat Ireland with tears streaming down her face.

Now Ireland was the type of girl who you knew always had a good sob, but you never saw her do it. You could tell by how puffy and red her face was for the next two days, but you never actually saw her crying. The sight made me uncomfortable. Give me a fight, give me a cigarette, give a shot of whiskey, and I know how to handle it. But a crying girl? Shit.

"Ireland?" I said from the doorway.

"I just slept with Spot." There was no preamble, no greeting, just the confession.

"What?" I felt my mouth drop open.

"I just spread my legs for your bastard half- brother – okay?" She looked at me this time – her voice all rage and malice.

Her blue eyes were bloodshot and tortured. How long had she been crying? Obviously long enough. For an instant all my anger was gone, but then it came back with redoubled force.

If Ireland and Spot really had fucked it was clear that the after effect wasn't what Ireland had wanted. Everyone and their dead aunt knew that Ireland still held a flame for my son-of-a-bitch half-brother so this meant that he had used her. Spot, that idiot, had fucked and shucked her like all the other bimbos he used. Accusations flew through my mind along with plans that would shoot me straight to hell if I did anything with them.

My brother might rule Brooklyn but that doesn't mean he can abuse good sellers like Ireland for his own benefit. He had plenty of floozies and whores he could go to – why had he gone to Ireland? It didn't make sense. I knew my half-brother's policy of only taking those who were willing, but willing or not it was wrong to take Ireland. It was wrong and it pissed me off even more.

Here I'd been trying to save him from himself by spending my morning with his nosy slut and I come back here to find that he'd hurt Ireland. Now I don't have friends in the sense that most people do, but I do know who will fight for me. Ireland is one of those people. You don't mess with the people who will fight for me or I will rip your damn eyeballs out of their sockets.

"Where is he?" I asked. My blood was pumping so fast I could hear it in my ears.

"I don't know." Ireland sniffed loudly and before she could ask anything I was out the door.

I didn't have time for her dramatics. If she wanted to cry then I would let her do it, but right now I had to find Spot. And I would. I'd find him. I'd find that bastard and when I did he'd be sorry. I knew things about him that would crush his rule as king of Brooklyn. There were stories that I could tell that would make even the most loyal of his followers look at him and see him for what he really was – nothing.

There wasn't a fancy thing about him besides the airs he put on to impress those around him. That gold tipped cane was nothing but malarkey and claims to leadership were as weak as he was. How long would he last without me covering his ass for all of his drunken missteps in the last year? A year ago he was a leader – but now he was just pathetic and I was pissed.

Maybe it was time for Brooklyn to have a new leader.

**A/N**: Ah gosh. I don't think it is ever good to make Snaps mad. Don't feel bad for her Snaps – at least she got to sleep with Spot! Oh gosh. I don't think that makes it any better…. I'm working summer camps for the next five weeks, but I should have enough computer access to at least get one or two chapters posted.

Leave me cheese-wiz sculptures of Spot.


	15. Loathing

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, the Lindharts, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: I swear that this story is going to get finished one of these days. Seriously. It _will_ happen. When? That I am not so sure of, but I can't imagine this going much more than four or five more chapters.

**Warning**: PG-13 (implied sex)

**Chapter 15**: Loathing

* * *

It was the backroom of an abandoned store. The lock had been broken and now served as a refuge for the few who knew about it. Often times it was used a neutral location for leaders to meet in Brooklyn. Tucked away in a maze of alleys, windowless, and supposedly inaccessible – it proved to be useful for secretive meetings of any type. All of the territories had places like this where they could meet, hide from the bulls, or rest when they needed. Some were better known to larger numbers of street rats, but others like this one were exclusive to a handful of elite.

It was a small room and nothing special. Large abandoned crates served as chairs and tables, ratty blankets used for warmth in winter were strewn about different places, a small stove that was never used stood in the corner, and a lumpy corncob mattress was pressed close to the wall next to it. It wasn't remarkable but it gave privacy when privacy was needed and privacy was exactly what Ireland had requested.

I'd taken her here on occasions when she had been too drunk to remember where we were once we left. This time she wasn't drunk, but she had asked for privacy and there was no way in hell I was taking her somewhere that people would see or recognize us. We barely found our way to that poor excuse for a mattress in the darkness, but we didn't waste any time on lighting a lamp. Being with Ireland was like going back in time to a place before Mary. It was there, between all of the kisses and curses, that I was able to put aside the memories and pain – even if it was only for an instant.

Her hands and mouth were familiar as they ran over my skin. The feel of her from the inside was reminiscent of simpler, more selfish, days. If I tried hard enough it was as though she was the only thing in the world. Women always made it possible for me to give myself to blissful oblivion even if only for an instant. When it was over I rolled off of her in the darkness and struggled to light the lamp left on one of the crates in the darkness.

The flame cast a faint, flickering glow and as I rejoined Ireland on the bed. She looked at me with seductive eyes that once would have crippled me, but now did little more than make me slightly sick. It may have been that I was using her, but she was using me just the same way. We both were just two lonely schmucks in love with the wrong person.

We weren't done with that.

Apparently Ireland was to take full advantage of this situation and I was of no mind to refuse her. She truly was a beautifully made creature. Her frame wasn't short, but her bone structure was fragile and thin. The curves of her body, hidden by the clothes she wore daily, were deliciously developed. In the dim glow of the lamp I watched her dance beneath me.

It was then I noticed that she still had the key I gave her on the Irish necklace she always wore. My matching key clinked against it as I hovered over her. Her eyes caught mine and it was the only time I noticed any fear in her gaze during our time this afternoon. Had she not wanted me to know that she still wore the key I'd given her? Did she think me so stupid that I didn't know she still loved me? It was only too obvious.

There hadn't been time to think about those questions because her hands pulled me into a hard kiss. I'd known that it would be good with her. It always had been and she didn't disappoint this time. When it was over we were both breathing heavily. Sweat glistened on our bodies in the dancing lamp light. The lack of light from the sun played tricks with our concept of time and for a moment it was as though we were still in love.

Then I remembered why I'd found her and brought her here. I remembered why I kissed her and used her as an escape. I remembered why I taken her just like I took Alice the past few nights and others before her. I remembered the long nights drinking alone and the ache that wouldn't drown. I remembered the pulsing hurt and numbing rage.

I remembered Mary.

* * *

They were often together. They went on walks. He would offer his arm and she would take it. They'd meander through the streets of Brooklyn, often with the twins in tow, but it was unthinkable for her to simply leave them at the rectory. Occasionally he could convince her to take a twilight stroll after the twins were upstairs for the night or that they would be fine with her father for five minutes. Strangely – Spot's five minutes always turned to be closer to a half and hour. This wasn't unnoticed by Mary, but she found respite from her drudgery in these innocent outings and even started to look forward to them.

The chapel had become a parlour of sorts and the piano bench a love seat. Though it was hardly vocalized it was becoming clearer daily that the courtship had unofficially begun. In the back of his mind Spot had laughed darkly at being chaperoned by God and wondered distantly if her all mighty Lord would strike him down to save her virtue. He'd already decided that there was a special place in hell being reserved for him for this endeavour.

Spot was picking up many tunes and improving quickly at the piano. He proved to be a very diligent student – partially from the personal enjoyment he rendered from playing and partially because the more he practiced the more time he spent with her. At first she had always taken a seat in a pew close to the piano, but soon Spot would pepper her with so many questions that she simply sat on the bench with him. She didn't seem to notice that the closer she was the fewer questions Spot had.

Pastor Lindhart hadn't said a word about any of it, but that didn't mean he hadn't noticed the attentions the boy was paying his daughter. He remembered the lusts of youth and the passions which were easily stirred. He also understood the naivety of his daughter, but thought highly of the boy. He'd been nothing but trustworthy since he'd started his visits.

There were words the Pastor suspected he should try to say to his daughter, but he was unsure of how to go about it. The problem was that he was the girl's father and this was a matter that required a mother's words. He could speak of faith and the love of God, but he didn't know how to speak of the delicate matters of the young woman's heart. In many ways the good pastor had forgotten that she was a child of barely sixteen years. So long had she filled the position of mother and housekeeper she often seemed older in his mind. However, she wasn't. She was yet a child in many ways, and he didn't know how to see it.

The days passed into weeks and Pastor Lindhart grew stronger. His mobility increased as his pains decreased. The nasty bruises had faded to a barely visible yellow and the twinkle was back in his merry brown eyes. Despite his improvements the Pastor made no moves to excuse Spot from his duties about the house and community. His nature to shepherd the lost sheep won over the misgivings of having the young man around his daughter. In many ways Spot was becoming a son. Martha and Henry were absolutely enamoured with the boy. He was fond of him as well and it was clear that Mary held him in high esteem though she never would say so herself.

It seemed that Spot was now more than a temporary fixture in their abode. Despite any misgivings that the good pastor had about the boy he excused them as little more than paranoia. Spot had taken a place in their church community as well. He would often be seen on Sunday mornings in his good pair of trousers and with his face washed sitting in the pew closest to the piano where Mary sat. He also came to prayer meetings, often simply staying for dinner and the leaving after the meeting was completed. The days that he was there far outnumbered the days that he wasn't.

Today was no exception to that rule.

It was bread day and despite Pastor Lindharts' improvements in health he took no move to go with the four on their rounds. He instead excused himself to study while the youths went out on the errands. This proved to be a better arrangement since Spot was unsure of how the pastor would react to the way he had taught his children to hitch rides on the backs of wagons. Something told him that the man wasn't up to the task of mounting or dismounting from a moving wagon – or would even approve of it.

Martha and Henry didn't seem to mind that Spot was able to go with them either, especially Henry who had such a case of idol worship that his father had spoken to him sternly about his infatuation. His justification was that no man should put anything in front of God, but inwardly he still harboured that smallest bit of distrust for the news boy who had practically been adopted into the family. After all, how much did they really know about Spot Conlon?

The four deliverers were on their last stop of the day. It was just before the evening edition would be printing for distribution later. Even though he had cut back on his circulation, Spot was doing about the same as he had been doing before. He had about one meal a day provided to him by the Lindharts' for his labour and that cut down on his expenses immensely. That wasn't to say, however, that he didn't miss the extra gambling money that came with the extra editions he could have hawked instead of attending prayer meetings.

As they made their way by wagon and by foot to their last destination – Spot was calculating how quickly he could get to the distribution center after he had returned the family to the rectory. It wasn't just the gambling money that gave incentive for him to return. There was a matter of authority and power at stake that he had to watch carefully. He must have looked particularly introspective for Mary noticed.

"My mother always told me that if I scowled like you are for too long my face would stick that way." Her good natured teasing was tempered with a slight laugh and he immediately snapped back to the present.

"I'd still be just as handsome." He returned in a deep tone with a sly smile and he could have sworn he saw her blush.

"Oh." She said. Clearly she had no idea how to respond to him.

"I was just wondering about some of my boys." He lied. "They've been getting in trouble with the bulls. I'm worried about them." Lies, lies, lies.

"Have you prayed for them?" She asked.

"I have." He said and it wasn't entirely a lie. When you went to at least one prayer meeting a week you learned how to pray – whether you meant it or not. "I have the feeling that this is going to be like all the others."

It wasn't often that he spoke of his life as a newsie. Mostly he kept the two worlds separate. It was easier that way. The less lies he told the less he had to remember. It was apparent, though, that Mary felt a pity for him. He had a hard time not resenting that. He didn't want her pity. He didn't want anybody's pity.

"The newsies are very blessed to have someone like you as their friend." She said and he was reminded that he'd still never told her that he was the leader of the group. The boys weren't his friends as much as they were his responsibility. More lies.

"I'm not sure that many of them would agree with you on that." He winked at her and she laughed.

"Well. We have been blessed by you." She said and something in him writhed uncomfortably. It was easier to ignore his duplicity when she didn't compliment him.

"Well as the good Pastor Lindhart would say: 'The Lord works in mysterious ways.'" He faked another charming smile and was rewarded with one in return.

She had no idea how wrong she was about him.

* * *

Ireland's hand was on my chest and her head was resting on my shoulder. She curled into me like a needy child. My arm wrapped loosely around her shoulders out of instinct. I lay on my back staring at the ceiling through the dim lamplight. Both of us still hummed from the aftershocks of sex but that was quickly overshadowed by the powerful pain that swelled and burst inside of me. The simple realization of what I had done nauseated me. It wasn't that I was repulsed by my abuse of Ireland, but rather that she wasn't Mary.

Without a word I rolled away from her. I sat up on the side of the mattress and ran a tired hand over my face. It reeked of our copulation. It reeked of her and that infuriated me. I didn't want Ireland. All I wanted was Mary and no matter what I did to rid myself of her I couldn't.

There was a hand on my shoulder and a soft kiss on the nape of my neck. It was _Ireland_ reaching out to me. It was _Ireland_ trying to comfort me. My stomach reeled and I turned away from her touch. The rejection she projected by my movement was tangible. Exhausted - I made no effort to soothe her distress. Instead I reached for my underwear as I stood and moved away from the bed. My pants were on with my faded red suspenders hanging at my sides before she said a word.

"So that's it?" Her expression was vulnerable and her voice bitter and final.

"Yeah." I said without looking at her. "That's it."

It was all that needed to be said. She understood and I knew she understood by how quickly she got up and reached for her clothes.

She was embarrassed. I knew the girl well enough to know that she was humiliated. I probably should have been too, but I wasn't. It wasn't that my pain justified my actions but somehow it kept me from guilt. There was so much pain that there wasn't any room for anything else – not even a twinge of remorse.

Nothing else was said between the two of us. The whole process was strangely formal, detached, and professional. Even though I started dressing before she did she was out the door before I was finished. Perhaps she wouldn't remember this place, but really – it didn't matter if she did or not. Who would she tell? It was unlikely that she would even tell anyone about what had happened. She would be too embarrassed.

When she walked out the door she gave me one last look. It was the look I'd seen on the girls' faces at the bars around town when they looked at their customers. She hated me, but not nearly as much as I hated myself.

* * *

**A/N**: So I've rewritten the way this story ends seven times. I am still torn which way it will go, but I have a pretty good feeling that it isn't going to be a happy ending considering that only one of the seven endings I have end well. Who knows though? There is still a distinct possibility.


	16. Innocence

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, the Lindharts, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: Whoa. Two updates to this story in one year? Does that happen? Ha. Nerd.

**Warning**: PG-13 (Profanity, sexuality)

**Chapter 16**: Innocence

* * *

There hadn't been a single day that passed that I hadn't thought of him. How could there have been? After all – I loved him in many ways despite the pain he caused me and the shame he brought to my family. Rather the shame that _I _had brought to my family.

The days were getting longer and warmer. My face was flushed from the heat of the stove and the sudden surge of embarrassment that always overtook me at the thought of my actions and the actions Spot had taken. There were times that I hated him terribly for what he'd done to my family, but more often I missed him. I missed his smile, his laugh, and the way he helped my family. I missed him banging on the piano in the church and how Henry wanted to be just like him. I missed his friendship.

It'd been just over a year since the last day I ever saw him. My life had changed dramatically since then. I am not a girl in any way any more and I cannot change that. Sometimes I thought of my mother. Life had been hard for her as well but she had persevered with grace and that was all I could try to do now myself.

Papa came down from our living quarters with a fake grin and a forced light heartedness. He looked old to me. Before all of this I never had thought my Papa looked old, but now he did. From the way that he walked and talked to the expression in his dark brown eyes – the youth had left him much the way my childishness had left mine.

"Hello Papa." I greeted him warmly and this time his smile was real, though it was tainted with a permanent sadness.

Before he could respond there were noises from the chapel. It sounded as if someone was walking about and then the piano sounded softly. The look he gave me before he went down the hall to investigate warned me to keep my place in the kitchen. He was exceedingly wary of any stranger that might breech into his family's life now. I suppose with good reason.

It was a few minutes before I heard the main doors of the church open and then close again forcefully. It was only then that I dared to abandon my post in the kitchen and quietly make my way into the chapel. I tried my very best to remain as quiet as possible. When I made it into the sanctuary my papa stood alone by the door.

"Papa. Was someone here?" I asked cautiously and it was a long moment before he turned to look at me.

"Just a lost soul look for an answer." He told me.

It was clear that the visitor had left him disturbed. The lines of his craggy face were deeper and darker now and his eyes never quite found mine. Still his hand came and touched rested on my shoulder in a familiar gesture of paternal warmth.

"Come Mary. Let's go see what we can have for dinner."

* * *

He couldn't wrap his mind around how much he wanted her. In the span of almost two months he hadn't done any more than the simplest touch and he couldn't sleep, breathe, think. He wanted to grab that sweet heart shaped face between his hands and kiss her till she was moaning in his arms. He wanted to dig greedy fingers into that silky looking hair until it tumbled down past her shoulders in splendid disarray. He wanted to run his hands around the slim waist and pull her close enough to feel how much he wanted. He wanted, but he didn't.

Spot Conlon, though dishonest in his intentions and highly motivated to do all the things he wanted to do to Mary, found himself petrified to touch her.

In this strange world that he had been introduced into he found that there were so many rules and stipulations that if he laid a finger on this girl in an unseemly fashion there could be terrible repercussions. The promise of her faith was chastity and celibacy until marriage. He hadn't needed to go to church to know that. It was common knowledge. However this girl actually seemed to want to adhere to that ideal.

His every intention today was to not go to the church. He knew that there were no pressing matters for him to tend to there and he also knew that by leaving for a day he would increase the awareness of when he was there. It was a careful matter of timing and rhythm that he had mastered beautifully and today was the one of those days that he had decided to keep his distance. And if he was honest with himself, he needed a break from the growing tension that mounted every time he saw her.

The day had already been a long one with two editions sold and the promise of a nice relaxing evening on the pier with his friends. He needed to have a little fun – to unwind a little. He really just needed to not think about Mary and his desire for the night before it became overwhelming.

His plan to forget about the bet and his duty to it for the evening went splendidly for the first half an hour. He spent time perched on his throne of boxes, cane in hand, reigned with a practiced posture over his kingdom. He laughed and joked with his comrades about the times they had experience that day. He even engaged in a battle of skill with his trusty slingshot in which he proved his skill deftly. That was all until Snaps showed up.

His bothersome half-sister, with her tongue tucked in his cheek and her hands shoved in her pockets, sauntered over to him as he shattered a glass bottle with a marble. Her suspenders hung by her sides, her angular face smudged with dirt and sweat, her cap pulled down low over her eyes – if it hadn't been for her thick signature braid one might have mistaken her for a boy. Two cat-like eyes peered mockingly at the Brooklyn leader and upon noticing her. He could tell she had something on her mind.

"What do ya want Snaps?" He said as he sized up a target with his slingshot and then nailed another bottle.

"You always think I'm wanting something with ya." She took out her own slingshot and a shooter from her pocket. "Not everything in this world has to do with you, Conlon." She smirked as she pulled back the cloth cradle of her weapon, took aim, and fired with deadly accuracy. The last of the bottles set up on the rail as targets shattered in the evening light. "Maybe I just happen to be here at the same time as you."

Other newsies took some notice of the exchange, but paid little heed. The discussion their leader and Snaps seemed to be of little to no consequence. The casual interaction beckoned little attention when so many other pleasurable pastimes could be found on the docks.

"Then if you don't mind, Is'll be excusing myself." Spot tucked his slingshot into the waistband of his pants and turned to leave when Snaps fell in alongside him.

"So I was thinking about our little bet." Snaps said.

Spot smirked to himself. So she _did_ have an agenda. He made quick steps to distance them from the crowded area of the docks. This was not a conversation to have for all to hear.

"You should just pay me the money and stop wasting your time." Snaps said. "After all – all you are getting from this is a better understand of the Bible. So what you say, Spotty? How about you admit that I win and let yourself have some fun again?"

"How's about you start paying me?" he said. "Cause there's no way in hell I ain't going to win this." He spat on the dock in punctuation.

"Pretty confident considering you haven't even kissed her, yet." Snap tucked her tongue in her cheek and chuckled.

"How many men have you slept with Snaps?" Spot asked.

He cast a languid glance in her direction like he had asked her the time. From her vacant expression it was clear that Snaps had not expected that question. Spot marked up another tally.

"How many times have you spread your legs for a man because you wanted to – or even just wanted to spread your legs for him before he even so much as touched you?" Spot lit a cigarette as they neared the end of the dock.

"I'se never spread my legs for no one. I ain't one of your two bit whores." Her fists bunched at her sides.

"But yous wanted to. Yous thought about it. Yous wondered just what it would be like to be with Jack." He curled his lips around his cigarette and breathed.

Not even Snaps could suppress the blush that crept up her neck and spilled onto her cheeks.

"What the hell are you getting at Conlon?" Snaps masked her discomfort with accusation.

"What I'm getting at is if you can get a girl to _think_ about having sex with you, most of the work is done."

"You are one sick bastard." Snaps comment fell somewhere between an insult and a compliment. "If you wanna waste another month you go right ahead. You can't get a church girl to think about sex. Chances are she doesn't even know what it is."

"Then I guess I'll just have to teach her." His lips turned into a mocking smile. "And while I'm at it – I suppose I could send word to Jackie-boy that you'd like a lesson as well." It was a well placed barb aimed to hurt and degrade the same way she tried to degrade him with her assumptions of victory.

He'd expected it to wound in a style that only he could achieve. He'd expected her to be offended. He'd even expected her to come back with some hate laced comment. What he didn't expect was for Snaps to punch him, but she did.

She punched him square across the jaw. Hard. His cigarette flew out of his mouth and into the murky waters of the East River below. The sharp tang of blood sprang onto his tongue and he realized she had split his lip. His initial reaction had been to punch her in return, but he held back. Instead he pulled out his familiar smirk and met her gaze with a coolly raised eyebrow. There was no fear of retribution in her eyes, only a brilliant sparkle that promised she wouldn't hesitate to strike again.

"Go to hell, Conlon." She spat. "You can't win the bet by just getting a girl to think about sex."

With that she turned on her heel and marched angrily back towards the others. Snaps was high tempered and unruly. Regardless of being blood – she'd deserved to be put back in her place, but the words that she had said held truth. He'd been all too cautious with his progression. The deadline was looming dangerously and he'd gotten no further than escorting her on his arm. He was courting her like a gentleman with the intentions of a thief. Something had to be done about this.

So it was then that Spot too left the docks. It was nearing dusk as he made his way across the city. The heat of the day still trickled through the streets, but without the overbearing sun beating down upon him it was almost pleasant. The familiar sound of his cane rapping along with his footsteps echoed off of brick edifices almost unchallenged. Few were out at this hour. All the business men and factory workers had already returned to their homes and families. Children were inside as darkness was moving to consume the city. The street peddlers and vendors had packed up their wares for the day. Only the rare vagabond such as the Brooklyn leader strode the streets this evening.

The sun slipped past the horizon when Spot made it to the back door of the rectory. He didn't knock. Instead – he hesitated. Spot Conlon was experiencing something that he rarely felt. His palms were sweaty and his heart was pounding. His mouth was dry and his stomach was in knots. Spot Conlon, king of Brooklyn, was nervous. Spot Conlon, king of Brooklyn, was nervous because of a _girl._

He took a few deep breaths and stood back. A light shone from the single window into the alley. The lamps had been lit. Mary was probably working on some sort of domesticity, the pastor was probably reading upstairs where the twins would be preparing for bed. Cautiously, so as not to be noticed, Spot peered in through the window into the kitchen he'd come to know well. It was as he expected. Mary was sitting in her customary chair, sewing together patches for a quilt with none of the other family members in sight.

Her hair was uncovered though still pulled back conservatively and she wore the same plain style of dress she always wore. The soft glow from the lamp cast pretty color into her cheeks and gave a nice red sheen to her hair. Her small hands worked quickly under the watchful gaze of her down turned eyes. At the sight of her – a strange pang stabbed through Spot. He didn't take time to analyze the response in case it be guilt and he talk himself out of this. Instead he moved from the window to the door, and opened it quietly.

Instantly her head shot up from her work to the sound. When recognition came upon her – she looked surprised.

"Spot. I wasn't expecting you." She set her sewing in the basket at her feet and rose to meet him.

"I just had something I wanted to talk to you about." He kept his voice quiet and low. "Come for a walk with me." He offered her arm and she took it without hesitation. She'd learned that it was faster to just accept his offers than to try to justify her way out of them. She'd come to expect and enjoy them.

The moment the door to the rectory was closed, Spot whirled Mary into a shadow and pressed her back against the rectory's exterior wall. He gripped her tiny waist in his hands, leaned down, and kissed her in one smooth movement. He felt her gasp as much as he heard it. The swell of her breast pressed deliciously into his chest. Her whole body stiffened, but she didn't pull back. She couldn't. One hand slid up to cup her face. Purposefully he moved his lips against hers. Tentatively she followed his lead.

His world reduced to touch and taste and he held his breath because what she made him feel left no room for air in his chest. He felt her everywhere even though he was barely touching her. One of her hands came and rested on his arm and he just couldn't…. Old habits and desires surfaced quickly even as every bit of her innocence bled into her kiss. This wasn't some easy girl who made a habit of being with men, but the darkness played tricks on him.

He tilted her head back, opened his mouth over hers, and tasted her. His arm slipped around her waist and pulled her up off of the wall and against him. He needed proximity. He needed contact. He couldn't believe how much he wanted her. He blamed it on his celibacy. It was easier that way. He couldn't have feelings for this girl. She was just one more reaction.

She made a sound. It was like a sigh, her body relaxing into his touch, and he nearly lost it. He'd had girls scream his name and never felt it the way he felt that barely audible noise. He pulled back. It was either that or teaching her exactly what a sound like that meant.

It was the moment of truth. His hand still held her face, and her wide brown eyes stared up at him.

There was a glitch in time. The moment froze with just the two of them standing and breathing. Neither of them so much as flinched. The world around them remained just as still as they as if it understood that this was not the time for action. Spot felt like his heart was going to explode in his chest in anticipation. He was certain that if she didn't do or say something soon he would break into a thousand tiny pieces.

Then she smiled.

It was the same sweet, serene smile that he'd seen on her face so many other times. It comforted him as much as it confused him. There was trust in her expression as well that sickened him. He knew exactly what he was going to do with that trust and dreaded it.

His hand dropped from her chin. He couldn't touch her and have those thoughts. It was more than he could handle. She still held his gaze and for the first time he could remember, Spot felt uncomfortable because of the attention of a woman. He didn't know what to say. So he smiled, too. Not the overtly confident smirk for which he was so well known, but an honest smile that lit his eyes and lifted his spirits.

"Is that what you wanted to say?" The slight accent in her sweet voice was inexplicably endearing in this moment.

"Yeah. That's all I wanted to say." He found that he couldn't stop smiling.

"Okay." She smiled.

"Okay." He replied.

But it wasn't.

* * *

Dinners were always so quiet now with just the two of us. Since Martha and Henry had gone to live with their aunt in Boston – the whole rectory was so quiet. Occasionally I imagined their voices and silliness filling this space once again and making this house a home, but it was always short lived. Perhaps someday they would come back. Papa had mentioned the possibility, but other things had to fall into place first before that could happen.

"You are especially quiet this evening, Papa." I said after several minutes of complete silence besides the sound of our eating. "Is something bothering you?"

"Yes, daughter. The visitor from earlier left me shaken." He said with vague honestly. I had a funny feeling settle in the base of my stomach at his words. Papa never admitted when something was troubling him unless it was a very grave matter.

"Who was it, Papa?"

"Someone I have forgiven, but not forgotten." His reply was cryptic, but even when he admitted to being troubled he rarely was specific about why. I didn't expect to get much more from him on the subject even though my curiosity was piqued.

I had more questions to ask, hoping to pry a more decisive answer from him, but it wasn't to be. I had to excuse myself and leave the table.

The baby was crying.

* * *

**A/N**: I am currently entertaining the idea of posting two different endings to this story simultaneously and letting the reader decide which one they want to read (both if they like). One would be a happy ending where everything worked out and one would be my signature tragic ending. I'm not sure, but I am just having a heck of a time deciding how I want to end this one, but I've narrowed it to two options. Who knows? It might be fun to have a kind of "choose your own adventure" feature.


	17. Uncertainty

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, the Lindharts, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: I am 100% hell bent on finishing this story. I just need it to be done.

**Warning**: (profanity, non-explicit sex, adult themes)

**Chapter 17**: Uncertainty

* * *

I went to Manhattan. It was the only place I could think to go. It was far enough away that I would have sufficient time to cool off before I even tried to think about confronting Spot. Manhattan would take me in for a few days. I had friends there. Well, not really. More honestly I had people there who were afraid of me and then there was Jack to help consider my situation.

Jack Cowboy Kelly had witnessed Spot's marvelous decline from his untouchable god-like status to the hollow shell of a leader. He'd done a lot to help protect the image of Brooklyn since then. Including spreading rumors of Brooklyn's fiercely territorial newsies soaking one or two of his boys for crossing territories without permission. It wasn't true, but no one needed to know that. All they needed to know was that Brooklyn was still a force to be reckoned with even if its leader was doing shit to keep its legacy alive.

It was a long walk to the upper-east side lodging house and it was dinner time before I entered the door. I recognized a few of the boys lounging on the stairs when I came inside but struggled for their names. They all looked surprised to see me and they should be. Normally if I came alone it was bad news in Brooklyn. This was no exception to that rule.

"Where's Kelly?" I asked the blonde boy with the eye patch. Dammit. What was his name?

"He ain't here." He watched me carefully with his one eye and I knew why he was wary. There were stories about me, too.

"Then where is he?" I asked. I kept my cool even though my blood still boiled. It was a talent I'd learned from Spot. Always play your cards close to the chest.

"Not sure." The patch boy replied. "Hey Race. You know where Jacky's at?" He called up the stairs and a few moments later a short Italian looking boy descended. He was a familiar face. Race. Yes. I knew him. He was the smart ass.

"Not sure. He's been scarce the past few days." He thumbed his nose as he looked at me. "What's Brooklyn need him for this time?" His curiosity for a good story was obvious and I almost hated to disappoint him.

"Brooklyn _doesn't_ need him." It was a lie but they didn't need the truth.

"Well then if you don't mind me askin'," the short dark haired boy licked his lips suggestively. "What exactly will _you _be needing him for, dollface?" The insinuation was clear in the way that the all the boys broke into barely stifled laughter.

The anger that had somewhat subsided from my earlier confrontation with my bastard half-brother came back to full force at that comment. Apparently the stories of Jack fucking me from here to next Tuesday wasn't just a joke between him and Spot. I could feel the fire rising in my face and I was two blinks away from ripping that smart-ass smile off of Race's face when the door opened behind me. In stepped none other than the infamous Manhattan leader, cowboy hat and all. Recognition and surprise came onto his face almost instantly at the sight of me. Almost immediately those faded into concern and apprehension; he knew that if I was there it wasn't going to be good.

"Snaps." He spat into his palm and extended it.

"Jack." I returned the greeting. "It's been awhile." I indulged in the formalities.

I could feel the uncomfortable silence from the boys on staircase. They were all just waiting to see what I would do. All were attempting to look preoccupied with anything they could lay their hands or eyes on as if to fool us into believing that they weren't avidly listening to every word we said.

"What brings you to my fine borough?" He looked over my shoulder to the boys on the stairs, perhaps judging their proximity and our need for privacy.

"The usual." I kept my response cryptic so only Jack could understand. His eyes flashed darkly to mine.

"Well then," he let out a deep breath before re-opening the door to the outside. "Why don't we step into my office?" He suggested as he exited and I followed.

Before I got out the door I made a point to turn back towards the boys on the stairs and gave them a gesture that conveyed exactly how I felt about them at the moment.

I didn't wait to see their reaction, but I knew from experience it would have been good.

* * *

They didn't talk about the kiss.

It seemed that it was something that Mary had processed and accepted now as her reality with the same unnerving peace and self assurance. It bothered him that she didn't talk about it. What bothered him even more was that _he_ wanted to talk about it. _He_ wanted reassurance. _He_ felt like things needed to be discussed, and it was disquieting. The Brooklyn leader could never remember having the urge to discus his feelings with a girl in the manner. Especially when he clearly did not have any real feelings for her in the first place.

It was all the bet's fault.

He'd simply blame it on that. The reason he was subject to this heightened sensitivity was simply because he was on a time crunch. He _needed_ to know where she stood on this matter because he _needed_ to know how much harder he needed to push. That was it. Plain and simple. It had nothing to do with how he actually felt about Mary, but simply about how he didn't want to lose this wager. It was thoughts like this that got him to sleep at night.

They had kissed again. Never in the church, he made sure of that. It was always on his time, on his turf. He'd try to catch her off guard, to shock her, instead whenever he pulled back she would look at him with that same soft, seemingly knowing smile. Sometimes she would blush, sometimes she would giggle, but she never seemed flustered. It frustrated Spot to no end.

So again, Spot took a risk.

They were in the chapel. He was sitting at the piano, she sitting on the pew closest to him with knitting in hand. He was practicing, and she was listening. Even with as much as he enjoyed playing the instrument, he found it increasingly difficult to focus on the notes in the primer in front of him. Casually – he stopped playing. Nothing abrupt, nothing dramatic, he simply stopped. After a few moments she looked up from her handiwork questioningly.

"Do you need help with something, Spot?" She stood and placed aside her knitting to come along side him on the bench.

He didn't say anything. Instead he brought an ink stained hand up behind her head and kissed her. Initially she stiffened with surprise. He'd never kissed her in the church before. It had always been in the seclusion of an alleyway or at his discretion on a street corner when darkness had chased others from the street, but never in her home - never in her father's church. He was half sure God would strike him dead for kissing her in a chapel.

He'd never kissed her this _way _either. He angled his mouth over hers and caught her bottom lip. He traced it with his tongue. This kiss was longer, deeper, more insistent, and completely unexpected. There was a desire there that he'd kept locked away that he let out now and it was overwhelming.

When he drew back he kept his face close to hers. It was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. He saw the familiar smile creep onto her lips. This time, however, it wasn't frustrating. This time, there was a spark in her eye that he hadn't noticed before now. It spoke of an uncertainty – a vulnerability that he had known was there but needed proof. She was thrown off base. He took advantage of that loss of equilibrium and kissed her again.

This time he felt her melt more into his caress than the first time. The passion that he'd exposed to her was now more expected and she accepted it readily. He exploited her inability to see the bad in people, especially her lack of ability to see the bad in him. He moved closer on the bench and put and arm around her waist. He pulled her as close to him as he could while sitting.

He could feel her breathing. The rise and fall of her chest pressed against his. Just knowing that and all it implied drove him crazy. He hadn't ever noticed that with anyone else before, but with her it was all he could think about. With her this kiss felt like everything. With her every other kiss meant nothing. He tilted her head back and opened her mouth under his.

For an instant he felt that old familiar guilt settle in over him like a blanket. He tried to ignore it. This wasn't about how he felt or how she felt – this was about getting what he wanted. This was about winning this damn bet. This wasn't personal. He didn't care that her skin smelled impossibly clean and fresh. He didn't care that he dreamed about how she tasted. He didn't care that everywhere she touched him, at any time, burned. He didn't care. He wouldn't care. He didn't care.

When he pulled back they were breathless. A pretty flush had risen to her cheeks and that same smile pulled at her kiss swollen lips. He had to suppress the urge to fall right back into her. The vulnerability in her eyes was ever stronger. She was searching for a reassurance that she didn't know she needed, but he knew exactly how to offer.

"I'se got something to tell ya." He leaned in so close that their noses almost touched. The hand on the back of her neck held her steady.

She looked at him expectantly. Her whole body wanted his words even though he knew she couldn't possibly guess what he was going to say. He opened his mouth, but something stuck. His gut tightened, his stomach tied in knots, his mouth went dry, his palms sweated, his throat constricted, his heart pounded, and his mind raced. What was happening? As long as he got what he wanted in the end – what did he care about these next few words?

He'd said them to dozens of girls all over New York to get what he wanted. He'd lied his way out of brawls and business deal and never thought twice of it. Hell. Poker was his favorite game and all that game subsisted only on a string of luck and lies. He lied more than he told the truth.

So why did they stop on his tongue now? Why did he taste them and feel like just like he felt her kiss? He swallowed, trying to force the knot in his throat to leave, but it stayed intact. He pushed against the wall that blocked him, shoving the guilt and uncertainty to the side, and pushed forward. He was Spot Conlon. He had no time for this.

With a deep breath he said: "I think I'se in love with ya."

The reaction his body gave next was more than just in anticipation of her answer. The words had felt different than they'd ever felt before. The way they slipped off his tongue stung his lips and burned his ears. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his skin tingled at the sound of them. That was coupled with the fact that he was honest to Moses scared of what she would say now.

Everything inside of him wanted to believe that he was scared only because he didn't want to lose this bet, but there was more. Something whispered in the back of his mind. He heard his voice echo in his mind with those words again and again. He wanted her to love him, and not just so she would go to bed with him. He wanted her to love him because her love meant everything.

"I think I am in love with you, too, Spot." She said. She trusted him.

He felt a grin start in his feet and spread its way up his body and then across his face. He couldn't stop it. It surged over him with a tide of relief. He didn't even have time to convince himself it didn't really matter. He didn't even try.

* * *

Jack took me to Medda's.

He assured me it was as good a place as any since we could converse away from the prying ears of his newsies. The nosy bastards. I had already had it up to here with people sticking their fingers in other people's business for the rest of my life. In the gloomy backstage area we made our way to a storage closet. Jack deftly struck a match and lit a lamp upon our entering. The glow illuminated a room full of theatre oddities.

Costumes, props, and small set pieces were all crammed into the room that also appeared to double as a dressing room on occasion. Crates were stacked on top of one other along the back wall up to the ceiling, large cut outs of trees and other scene décor were stacked in front of them. Costumes hung from every imaginable place in every imaginable size, color, and style. A love seat, a small couch, and a vanity littered with cosmetics, hair pins, and wigs were crowded in somehow to make a sort of an area for entertaining.

"So what did ol' Spotty do this time?" Jack set the lamp on the vanity sat on the ratty red couch.

"What hasn't he done?" I sat at the vanity and took off my cap. "He ain't the Spot we used to know."

I wanted to tell him about Ireland and Alice and everything that had happened the last two days. I wanted to tell him about the nights of his drunken rages and the self-destructive path he'd set for himself. But it all seemed so useless. Jack knew how pathetic Spot was now. He knew what a pathetic excuse of a leader he was now. He'd covered his staggering tracks just as many times as I had. In the beginning we'd both thought that he would bounce back from this like he always did, but instead of improving he sunk further and further.

"No he's not." Jack agreed. "So what're we going to do about it?"

It wasn't an easy question. It wasn't one that we had asked before. It wasn't one I wanted to answer. I looked in the vanity mirror and I could see myself and then Jack sitting behind me on the couch. Our eyes made mirror image eye contact and in an instant I had a terrible idea. I remembered a conversation I'd had with Spot over a year ago on the dock before this whole fiasco had gotten out of hand.

_You've thought about it. You've wondered just what it would be like to be with Jack._

The words came back and rattled around in my mind. His sister and his best friend. It was something Spot had joked about, but I knew that it would piss him off to no end if anything actually came of it. He'd hate it. Maybe he'd hate it enough to come back.

I looked myself in the mirror and saw a scared little girl. That pissed me off. Nobody was a virgin forever. Quickly I reached up for my braid and untied the bit of twine at the end, loosed my thick dark hair, and ran my fingers through my locks. Better.

"Snaps?" He asked.

Instead of replying, I stood and walked over to the couch and sat right next to the cowboy of Manhattan. This was no come-hither routine. I'd never pass for strumpet in this life or the next. There were girls who had mastered coy laughs and batted their eyelashes prettily but I wasn't one of those girls. My method of seduction had to be much more direct. Taking his handsome face in my hands I pulled it down to mine and kissed him. Hard. It took him a few moments to process what had just happened but once he did he jerked back.

I might as well have punched him in the gut from the expression on his face. He sat up straight and leaned back away from me. His hazel eyes were wide as dinner plates and his strong mouth, that normally held a hint of mischief, slacked. I'd managed to scare Jack Kelly shitless.

"What the hell Snaps?" It wasn't angry. It was breathless.

"You can't tell me you haven't thought about it, Kelly." Recycled words, but they got the point across.

"We can't do this."

"Why not?"

"Spot… But…"

His hesitance was starting to piss me off. I took that anger and used it to burn out the butterflies that thudded in my stomach. Again I kissed him, just as hard this time, and this time he kissed back. My heart jumped into my throat when his hand came up behind my head and tangled in my hair. It had been a long time since I'd been kissed and I had never been kissed like this. His lips were soft but his kiss was anything but. I shivered as his tongue slid past the boundary of my lips and into my mouth. After a few minutes he pulled back, breathing heavily, and looked me in the eyes.

"This is going to change things." He said and I nodded.

I knew it was. I hoped it would. I wanted it to change things. I wanted _everything_ to change.

We were kissing again. There was nothing polished or graceful about us. We crashed together, violent and hot. It was better because it hurt. Clothing haphazardly found its way to different places in the room as it was tossed away in no particular order but the reality of it all didn't quite sink in until Jack pushed me down onto the couch and my bare skin touched the rough upholstery.

It was only then that I fully realized I was about to lose my virginity on a couch in the back of a theatre while a show played out on the stage. In the back of my mind I thought about how funny that really actually was and how horrified the audience would be if they knew, but that didn't last long. I looked up past Jack's shoulder at our shadows on the ceiling and wondered if this was worth it and knew that it was too late to go back now.

Jack's tongue found the dip of my navel. There weren't many thoughts after that.

* * *

**A/N**: So, thinking it through there will probably be about three or four more chapters before I post the conclusion. I'm still debating the idea of posting two different endings. We'll have to see. Realistically that is all it needs and any more would be over kill. I feel like there is a lot more that I _could_ write but that it wouldn't be necessary for the story. It is just a bunch of back story in my mind. This story will get finished if it kills me.


	18. Displacement

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, the Lindharts, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: This story is going to get really dark really fast. After this chapter there are going to be very unhappy times. Abandon all hope ye who enter here.

**Warning**: PG-13 (language, adult themes)

**Chapter 18**: Displacement

* * *

I went for a walk. It had been a few days since Snaps had come to my apartment and been unceremoniously driven off by my brother Clinton and his friend Samuel. Besides venturing out of my apartment for work and for a few essentials I hadn't left the building. Though I couldn't prove it I felt that someone was watching me. It wasn't until that sensation subsided slightly that I felt comfortable enough to remove myself from my ensconced position and stroll the streets freely. This partially was due to the fact that my outing wasn't merely for my own pleasure.

I was looking for them. Snaps. Spot. Whichever I could come across first with the least amount of personal repercussion, which would probably be Snaps. If Spot didn't want to be found he simply would not be found. Though I didn't know Snaps as well as I thought I knew Spot, I assumed she would be the same way, but I'd had better luck with her so far. I needed to warn them to not come around anymore. My most significant problem was that I had no idea where to even begin looking.

So I walked up and down, down and up, all around the different streets and passageways where I thought a newsie may be. I had exceedingly poor luck with it. I ventured up and down streets I hadn't ever been down before. There were so many places in Brooklyn that I hadn't been for fear of safety and for fear of running into unsavory characters. It wasn't until lately that I had begun to realize that I was no better than the trollops and thieves that roamed these areas. Besides – it wasn't going to be dusk for at least an hour yet. I had time.

It wasn't for a while before I started to realize that I was lost. I had managed to completely turn myself around, lose my bearings, and the ability to recognize any landmarks. So I kept walking, hoping that I would find a place that looked familiar or friendly or both. It took a few blocks, but I stumbled upon a humbled, white washed church. The huge oak doors looked intimidating, but the simple wooden cross was a familiar symbol that I readily recognized. Perhaps they would be able to give me directions.

Quickly I climbed the crumbling stone stairs and pulled on the door. It opened easily despite its large size. I entered the modest chapel to find it devoid of people. Being catholic I found the small, simple size and décor of the room quaint compared to the majesty and decorum of the cathedral I attended. It was rather refreshing.

"Hello?" I asked into the silence. "Is anyone here?"

Someone was.

* * *

Spot was brooding. You could tell by the way that he had dark circles under his eyes and what seemed to be a permanent furrow in his brow. Between the mutual confession of love between Mary and himself, the constant badgering from Snaps, and the all too quick passage of time – Spot was feeling a little stressed. He was frustrated beyond comprehension as well.

Mary loved him. She told him herself. In all of his previous experiences with saying 'I love you', it made sense to consummate the deal. The celibacy that Mary was suggesting was absolutely unnatural. He couldn't fathom it. He blamed her upbringing. Before Spot had come into the picture he was certain that absolutely no boy had ever had a private audience with the good pastor's daughter. She was sheltered because her father kept her too busy for friends or fun.

He placed his anger and frustration on these thoughts instead of the biting knowledge that, no matter how much he denied it, his own feelings for the girl existed.

It was a sunny afternoon and wickedly hot on the unforgiving streets of New York. The heat and humidity were stifling in the shade, but they were blistering the sun. August in New York was synonymous for God's rough draft of hell. Everyone and everything reeked with sweat. Trash rotted in disregarded heaps in alleyways where rats feasted to their filthy hearts' content. Every news boy in town went to docks for some chance at relief the moment that their papers were sold, but not Spot Conlon. No. Not he.

Spot Conlon, king of Brooklyn, didn't have time for the frivolous pastime of diving off the docks today. Today Spot bathed like a proper boy in a tub in the newsboys lodging house. It was peaceful since everyone was elsewhere this time of day. He scrubbed himself red in attempts to get off the layers of sweat and dirt that had seemed to permanently adhere to his flesh. The slippery lye soap slid effortlessly over his body and once he was done he practically glowed from his efforts. He hadn't been this thoroughly cleaned in over a month. He'd even attempted to clean his hair.

He'd washed his clothes before he'd washed his body. Even in the heat of the day – the humidity kept them from drying completely. So when he donned them they were still slightly damp and clung to his skin. He knew that they would dry out quickly enough once he was outside, but the clinging sensation was almost suffocating in the day's climate.

Carefully he brushed back his hair, dark but streaked with blonde highlights from the sun's bleaching rays, attempting to get it look like a gentleman's. He'd been told he had nice hair by several girls, and he tended to believe them until any time he tried to style it and it absolutely refused to obey. It was too thick to do anything practical or fashionable with it. More often than not it hung like a shaggy mop on his skull, but he'd never gotten any complaints besides some friendly teasing from female admirers.

At the end of it all, Spot Conlon looked ready to go to church, which is exactly what he intended to do. It was Wednesday night after all, and that meant that there was a prayer meeting supposed to be happening. He hadn't missed a prayer meeting since the first time he'd come around that church and he didn't plan on starting. Not now at least. Not when he was so close to his goal.

"Looking good, _Spotty_." The last word was said with such deliberation and degradation there was no doubt about who would have the guts to call him that.

"Thanks, _Emma_." He said as he looked in the dingy brass mirror hanging from a wooden post in the washroom. He did look good.

"Yous looking mightily gussied up for just any old day." Snaps didn't acknowledge the fact that her brother had used her birth name instead of her alias, but that doesn't mean that she didn't notice or that she wasn't writhing inside from it. She hated when he did that. "Could it be that you have a special errand to run?" She slinked into the room with the grace of a cat and gingerly placed herself upon the edge one of the wash stands.

She held a particularly aggressive edge to her smile today, an especially keen gleam in her eye, and falseness in the relaxed nature of her posture. She appeared that she was as languid and loose as molasses in this heat, but he knew her well enough to know that under that cool exterior she was wound tighter than a banker's pocket watch. She was nervous about something.

"Got something ya want to tell me, Snaps?" The Brooklyn leader splashed his face with lukewarm water before reaching for a towel and vigorously drying it.

"Not particularly." She coyly pushed herself off her perch and walked behind him. "It's just that some of the boys are starting to think ya care more about church than you care about them." She snapped his suspenders against his back just hard enough to sting before moving over to a wooden beam and leaning against it.

Spot finishes drying his face and gives her a pointed look. He knows she's bluffing. He knows she's trying to throw him off of his game, and he has to give her credit. She is good, but not good enough. Her arrogance gives her away faster than her actually admitting to her lies. Not everyone would pick up on this signal, but he knows her better than most.

"Is that so?" He is unimpressed.

"Some of the boys have been talking that you've lost your guts all because of some church broad." She watches him as he takes the towel and scrubs each tooth roughly in the mirror. "They've been saying that you don't care about Brooklyn no more, that you need to spend more time with the borough and less time in the pews." She's baiting him. He knows it. Nobody was saying any of these things.

"And what do you say about all this, my dear sister?" It is patronizing. It is sarcastic. He coupled his well planted question with an arrogant pivot and a cocky head tilt that was carefully calculated for maximum impact.

Direct hit.

It takes her a brief moment to process the fact that he has absolutely and thoroughly called her bluff. Once the realization fully dawns upon her there is a slight stiffening of her posture, the corners of her mouth tighten, and her throat works rapidly. It is all subtle enough that if you weren't watching for it you would have missed it, but Spot was watching. He knew the signs and he watched for them. A delighted smirk crept upon his face at her unintentional misstep.

"I say you should listen to them." She recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. "You should stick around the borough more often. Go swimming, shoot some targets, rough up some of the little shits who think they know everything." She suggested as she tried to maintain her casual posture.

"Who exactly is saying all this, Snaps? How many boys?" He pried further and she squirmed a little under his gaze. She knows she is caught. "I - want - names." He drew out the pauses between the words for effect and he could practically see the wheels turning in her mind as he watched her.

"I'm not supposed to say." She covers hurriedly. "They don't want you to get mad at them." She seemed all too pleased with her hole-filled cover.

"If they're still afraid of me getting mad at them, then I'd say that I don't have any reason to be afraid of some pipsqueak scab." He shrugged. "People always talk, but they don't always mean it. You know that better than most." He turned from his half-sister and started towards the door.

"You're not going to win this one, Spot." Snaps called after him and he turned back over his shoulder to see her, arms crossed, scowling against the post where he'd left her.

"See ya later, Snaps." He left with a wink and a laugh. He could almost hear her fuming.

So with that he left the lodging house, back onto the hot dusty streets of the city, and started his familiar walk over to the church.

He entered through the church and knocked on the rectory door. He found that was the best and most expected way for him to enter. He only went in through the back at night when he came specifically to call on Mary. This was not one of those times. This time he was anticipating a meeting with the whole family.

The door opened partially and there was Mary. She was flushed, and for one of the first times he could ever remember – she looked anxious. The earth-defying peace that seemed to be immovable in her aura was missing. There was a strain to her mouth and her eyes that wasn't familiar. She was worried.

"Spot. You can't be here now." She kept the door slightly closed, blockading the boy from entering and he looked at her curiously.

"Why not?" He tried to peer past her into the rectory to see if anyone else was in there, but he saw no one, not even her family. "What's wrong?" He felt a concern as real as any he'd ever had.

"We have to quarantine the church." She explained. "Henry and Martha both have developed the measles and we can't let anyone into the rectory until we are certain that it is safe." She looked tired and strained.

"Where are they?" Spot asked.

"They are upstairs with Papa." She said. "Please, I don't want you to get sick, too." She started to shut the door, but Spot placed his foot its path.

"Mary. I can't get sick. I had the measles when I was little. You can't get it twice." He gripped the door firmly in his hand, and he knew that could easily force his way into the house, but he wanted it to be her decision. "Please. Let me in."

Something in her face relaxed, almost as if something inside of her collapsed at his words. She hesitated, but he wasn't worried. He saw the surrender in her eyes. He felt the need she had for him to be there in this moment. He knew her weakness and a wicked voice in the back of his mind whispered all of the ways he could use it to his advantage. While he was aware of the voice – it wasn't the only voice that he heard. There was another even more disturbing voice. It was a voice that told him to just wrap his arms around her for the single reason that he didn't want her to be afraid and he didn't want her to hurt.

It was a relief when she yielded and finally stepped away from her staunch defense of the door. He pressed into the narrow hallway and she demurely shut the door behind her and locked it. The church doors may always be open – but the rectory doors were always closed.

Almost instantly she found her way into his arms. The top of her head fit so neatly under his chin. He wasn't sure if he had reached for her or if she had come to him, but either way he held her. She didn't weep or make a big show of it, but there was an admittance of need that he wasn't accustom to seeing in her. She was, in so many ways, the mother of this house while she was still such a young thing and, by no rights, an actual mother. Spot knew the dangers of measles. He'd seen many children fall prey to its rigors and not recover. He didn't know how aware she was of the toll the disease could take on a body, but due to her current state of frailty he assumed she had a fair idea of the affects.

"Should we go see them?" He kept his voice low, whispering into the white cap that covered her head.

"I can't. I've never had measles." She pulled back to look up at him. "Papa wants to send me away, but I can't bear the thought of leaving them."

She looked honestly distressed and Spot could understand why. Her family was her life. Spot understood her desire to stay with her family, but it was completely unreasonable. She could get sick. She could easily die. An urgency creep up in his throat at the idea of her falling ill. It wasn't just because of any bet either. He couldn't let it happen. He had to protect her.

"You aren't safe here. You have to leave." He said.

"I can't. I can't." She repeated almost as a self determined mantra. "I can't leave them."

"Mary. Listen to me." He grabbed by the upper arms tightly and looked at her firmly. "The only thing ya can't do is stay here. The last thing your father needs is for ya to get sick. Ya need to go somewhere you can be safe." He said. There was no gentleness in it, but he needed her to hear him.

She looked like she might cry and it broke his heart. It was true that he never liked to see girls cry, but something about this one crying was more than being uncomfortable and awkward. The thought of her crying physically upset him. He didn't want that. He wished it would go away.

"Don't leave me." She said.

It was so small and sad that he barely hears her when she says it, but it registers. An instinctive need to protect this girl pounds him over the head again and again. He bit his tongue against the words that rushed to his mouth. He swallowed back down the whispered hushes his body pleaded to murmur against her hair. Now wasn't the time for these weaknesses. He was being handed a golden opportunity and he was almost going to miss it because he wanted to just hold her.

She looked at him with those huge brown eyes, wide and weary, and he knows this is it. This is what he has waited for.

"Stay here." He instructed. "I'm going to talk to your father." Letting go of her arms, he left her standing in the hall and ascended the stairway to the personal dwellings of the pastor and his family.

There is a door to his left at the top of the stair well. It is open and Spot steps inside. It is dark and hot. The curtains are drawn and all of the heat from the building and outside was rising up into this tightly confined area. There are two beds on either side of the room, both holding two very sick children. The pastor is in a chair between them, only a foot of space on each side separating him from his children, his head in his hands. He looks up when he hears Spot enter.

"Spot." He said, surprised. "You can't be here. You must go!" The older man stands quickly to shoo him away.

"I've had measles, Pastor." Spot said.

The man instantly is put more at ease, but he wears the same weak and worried expression he had seen on Mary's face the moment she'd opened the door.

"I'm here to tell you I'm taking Mary away. She'll leave with me." Spot keeps his voice low, but makes sure that his tone holds authority. This isn't a question for permission.

"What? Where will you take her?" The Pastor asked. He steps closer to Spot.

"The lodging house. She can pay and stay there. No one will ask any questions if I say she's clear. He said. "I promise that I will keep her safe. I'll check back here every day. If you ever need to find us find a newsie and tell them you're looking for me. We'll be here as fast we can."

"I'm not sure, Spot. You live in a very different world than she does." The man said and Spot knows that it is true. Hell, he's not even sure where he is going to put her. There's no way he'd let her near the bunkroom, but he knows that he will find a place. "She has an aunt in Boston. It's just a matter of money to send her."

"We both know the longer she stays here the more likely she is to get sick." Spot said. "And we both know she won't leave unless she is close enough so if Henry or Martha need her she can come back. She won't go to Boston. You know that. I swear she is safer with me than anywhere else in Brooklyn."

There is a pause. The world weighing heavily on the old man's heart and shoulders, his mind filled with all of the possibilities and ramifications of the young man's offer. Tired brown eyes drift to the two sleeping children in their beds, flushed with fever and fidgeting in their overheated dreams, and he knows that he can't have Mary like this as well. Women from the church were coming to help aid them with the care of the young ones, but none had offered to take in Mary for fear that she carried the illness. Here, a young man who had become as much a part of the family as any of his flesh, offered something that none of his parishioners had thought to give: a safe haven for his daughter. So despite his uneasiness with the situation, he nodded his head wearily in ascent.

"Take her. Keep her safe." He said and Spot was moving for the door as quick as he'd heard it. But Spot, I trust you to keep your word."

Spot looked back over his shoulder at the man and saw just how much he loved his daughter. Daggers of guilt twisted in his gut. No matter how well he had come across with his noble intentions and his promises of protection – Spot knew his heart of hearts. He knew where this would end. And somewhere, on some level, Spot hated himself.

"Don't worry." Spot said. "I always keep my word." What the pastor didn't know might kill him.

Spot went back down the stairs. Mary was waiting in the kitchen, sitting at the table, her face pale and pained. She stood when she saw him, but didn't move from her place. She looked almost afraid to hope for what she wanted him to say.

"Come on Mary." Spot said and her face melted in a mix of relief and uncertainty. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

The door at the back of the room opened and out stepped a simply clad young woman. Her dress was brown with a high neck line, long sleeves, and no embellishments. She wore a plain white cap over her tightly drawn hair. She applied no makeup or any sort of cosmetics to help appearance. She was plain, but not ugly. She had a sweet face, a gentle face. Though she didn't appear to be any further along in years than I, she seemed so much older somehow.

"How may I help you, sister?" She said. I immediately felt at ease with her. Her voice was soft and sweet.

"This is going to sound terribly silly of me, having lived in New York my whole life, but I seem to have gotten myself lost. I went for a walk and I'm not entirely sure where I have ended up." I said.

The moment those words came from my lips I realized how incredibly dull I sounded. What right minded person got lost in broad daylight in the town where they were raised? But there was no judgment in this girl's eyes. There was no condescending glance or sarcastic comment. Instead she smiled a peaceful smile with no single hint of mirth or amusement, and nodded her head in understanding.

"Where are you trying to go?" She asked and I responded with my address. "You aren't far off. These side road can be confusing if you don't know them." She comforted me in a way that was completely empathetic and not at all patronizing.

Then the girl did something strange. She ducked back into the doorway from whence she came, turning away from me, as if she were looking for something or someone. It was only after a few seconds of this that she reemerged into the room where I stood and shut the door behind herself. It seemed odd to me that she would have done that, but she hadn't judged me in my odd ways and I would not judge her in hers.

"Come with me." The plain woman spoke as she motioned to the large oak doors. "I will show you the way."

* * *

**A/N**: I feel like I have been posting a lot lately. Three posts in one week, almost unheard of, but they are all on different stories. I suppose I just finished a bunch of ideas at the same time. Oh well. It is all coming together now. The pieces are starting to fit. Only a few chapters left….


	19. Trust

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, the Lindharts, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: Okay folks. Here we go.

**Warning**: PG (general adult themes)

**Chapter 19**: Trust

* * *

Papa went upstairs after dinner. He watched the baby and studied for his sermon and left me to clean up our mess. This was fairly typical anymore. More often than not I found myself alone downstairs completing some domestic task. Sometimes I found myself expecting Henry and Martha to come running down the stairs to distract me, but that wouldn't happen anymore. They had been gone for quite some time now but I swore that their shadows still run around this place out of the corner of my eye. I missed them.

I just finished cleaning up the dinner mess when I thought I heard the doors of the chapel open. I wasn't supposed to go into the chapel without Papa's permission. He had been extremely cautious with me ever since I'd returned and I couldn't blame him. To be honest I found my own heart jump into my throat every time I knew someone was in the chapel at any unanticipated hour. After my history, that was to be expected I suppose.

"Hello?" A woman said. "Is anyone here?"

Papa didn't come downstairs. Perhaps he had fallen asleep or didn't hear the inquiry. I didn't want to disturb him in slumber or in study, so I decided to venture to the sanctuary myself. It would be fine. It was just a woman. There would be no trouble from this.

I opened the door to find that the visitor standing between pews. She woman was pretty and stylish. Her white blouse and blue skirt were cut to her perfectly with more lovely lace detailing. She wore proper gloves and her dark hair was pulled back fashionably with a wide brimmed hat pinned securely on her head. She had creamy skin, wide dark eyes, and cherry-colored lips. She really was lovely.

"How may I help you, sister?" I asked. Why would such a lady would come to our humble church.

"This is going to sound terribly silly of me, having lived in New York my whole life, but I seem to have gotten myself lost. I went for a walk and I'm not entirely sure where I have ended up." She said. The way she spoke with me was friendly, informal, and not what I expected. She seemed genuinely embarrassed over her situation and I felt myself relax from a tension I hadn't known I'd held.

"Where are you trying to go?" I asked. She gave her address. "You aren't far off. The side roads can be confusing if you don't know them." It honestly was not too terribly far away if you cut through a few side ways, but it was difficult to describe to someone who wasn't familiar with the area, which she apparently wasn't.

At one point in time I would not have hesitated to offer to my assistance in getting her to where she wanted to go, but things had changes. I had changed. I knew that dusk would be here before too terribly long. I also knew that my father would most likely frown on the idea of me escorting this young lady on her way. However this young lady did have a bit to walk before she reached her own safe destination and I really shouldn't unnecessarily delay her any more.

Quickly I ducked back into the rectory and went to the stair case. For a few moments – I listened intently. I heard no rustling of papers or turning of pages. I heard no stirring or whining from the baby. I heard nothing. It was quite likely that they both were sleeping. Surely there would be no harm in helping this young woman find her way and returning before either of them woke?

I hurried back the chapel to find the woman still standing where I had left her, and I knew she must be curious about my antics, but I said nothing. I did not want to burden her with my doubts.

"Come with me." I said. "I will show you the way."

* * *

He took her to the lodging house. They sneaked up the fire escape to the attic to avoid alerting the Lodging House superintendent to the new tenant's arrival. Spot knew the window would be unlocked. He kept it that way for just such sneaky occasions. No one saw them creep in. It helped that most were down at the docks or heading over to sell the evening edition.

The attic was dark except for a few small windows through which the golden rays filtered onto the wooden floorboards. It was rarely used. In the winter, overflow tenants found respite in the attic. Since summer had come, however, there was less demand for shelter from the elements and thus no need to use the upper room. There were a few bunks and beds here, but mainly it was storage. Crates and boxes were stacked around in no particular order, but Spot already knew how to use them to his advantage.

Quickly and quietly, Spot shifted boxes to form a make shift wall in front of one of the unoccupied bunks. In one of those boxes he found a blanket and pillow. Mary stood to the side and watched silently for a long while.

"Spot. Is it wrong of me to be staying here? Shouldn't I be paying like the rest of you?" She asked. She was wringing her hands. She never did that.

The answer, of course, was 'yes', but if she stayed in the bunkroom with everyone else then she would have to sell papers like everyone else. If she stayed in the bunkroom she would be exposed to more unpleasantries than he cared to name. She would find out exactly who he was and what he did when he wasn't at the church, Snaps would make sure of that. Snaps. No, she absolutely could not be like everyone else.

"Just think of this as a temporary arrangement until I can find you something better." Spot went over to where she stood.

She picked the skin of her hands, her brow slightly furrowed, and there was anxiousness to her brown eyes. She may have been standing here with him, but her head and heart were not there with him. She trusted him. Her main anxiety wasn't the nickel a night some gent downstairs wasn't getting, it was her brother and sister. He felt a surge of need to protect her from the world, to shelter her from things she couldn't change. He folded her into his arms and just held her.

He couldn't believe how good it felt just to have her close. Spot felt closer to her in this instant than he felt to any girl at the height of intimacy and all he was doing was _holding_ her. Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck and his spine was replaced with a steel pole. He didn't like how much he liked this. A shiver ran through his entire body like ten thousand spiders running down his back. He let her go and tried to make it not seem abrupt, but he felt like she burned the length of him everywhere she touched. What was wrong with him?

She didn't seem to notice his discomfort when he released her. Good. He didn't want to have to try to explain that one away.

"No one else is supposed to know I'm here, are they?" She asked. They were still close, not touching, and she craned her neck back to look at his face.

"It's probably best they don't."

"Why?"

"The less people that know, the less chance there is someone will slip up and get you kicked out for not being a newsie." Spot said, patient in his explanation.

He was used to lying and trickery. It was part of his world. It was part of survival. Mary was not. Any kind of dishonesty was off limits to her. He couldn't explain to her what it was to grow up in a world the truth was looked down upon. He couldn't explain to her the fact that lying was his life. He couldn't explain to her that if the boys down there knew she was up here… he couldn't even explain that to himself.

He looked at her and he saw everything. She _loved_ him. She _trusted _him. She was trying to reconcile the two with what, to her, was a new found capability to lie.

"What would I have to do to let you let me sleep in the main bunk room?"

_Nothing_. The word comes to his mind but he knows that isn't enough.

"The bunk room is for newsies. Ya gotta sell papes." He'd told Henry the same thing.

"Is it hard to sell papers?" It was innocent enough, but it set Spot on edge. This wasn't an option.

"You ain't selling papes."

"Spot. It is dishonest if I stay here without selling papers."

"No. It's dishonest if you stay in the bunkroom without selling papes." He said. "If there was any other way to keep you safe, I'd do it. Life is different here. The best way I know how to keep you safe is keep you here." She stared at the floor as he spoke. He grabbed her shoulders. "You have to trust me."

She looked up at him hesitantly. Her wide brown eyes glistened with emotion. It was clear that she was torn between her want to trust him and not understanding the need to lie.

"I'll pay the lodging house double every day you're here." He wouldn't, but she didn't know.

"And I'll be home soon." She couldn't bring herself to put words to the situation.

"Right. It'll be over soon." He confirmed and she ducked her head. "Hey." He put a gentle hand beneath her chin and raised it up so that she was looking him in the eye once more. "I love you."

The words came so easily now, felt so simple, came without hesitation. He liked the way they tasted.

He gave her a disarming smile that he knew to melt her thoughts. Her cupid bow lips curled into generous smile at those three words and he felt a tightening in his gut that was too familiar. His body reacted to her approval like he cared, like she mattered. What exactly did that mean?

"I love you, too, Spot." She said and all he wanted to do was kiss her.

So he did.

* * *

We walked out of the church and onto the warm evening streets of New York City. The stench of summer was always less the lower the sun sank over the horizon. I hardly noticed it anymore, but it was there. A few people were out and about on their different pathways with different purposes. I wondered about them and what was on their hearts and in their minds.

I also wondered about the woman with whom I was walking. What would have brought her out on such an adventure? Who was she to go walking about the city haplessly until she knew not where she was? Clearly she spent little time outside of the precious few blocks that made up her existence, so why attempt to broaden it today?

Perhaps there was no reason. Perhaps I was making things too complicated in my mind. I used to simply accept things for what they appeared to be and never guessed anyone to have an ulterior motive. It had been quite some time since I had indulged myself in that mindset. Yet here I found myself walking beside a complete stranger to aid her in returning to her home. Hopefully this wasn't an unwise decision.

"I apologize. I don't believe I got your name earlier." The woman said.

"My name is Mary." I said. "And yours?"

"Alice." She said. The way she said it made me think she thought very highly of her name, and she had no reason not to. It was a lovely name.

"That's pretty." I said and she smiled charmingly.

"Thank you."

This young woman had obvious upbringing and culture. The way she carried herself and the inflections in her voice spoke of someone with breeding and sophistication. I supposed that she had probably even attended a boarding school, yet she wore no ring. Could she not be married? It seemed a woman of her station and appearance would have no trouble attracting the pursuit of men.

Something else puzzled me. The address she had given me would place her in a part of town that had no fine homes or even homes for that matter. It was only apartments. Could she possibly live on her own? I had heard of woman doing such things. They would procure jobs working in fine lady boutiques and pay their own bills by doing so. It seemed scandalous that any woman would think herself so independent and un needing of aid that she would indulge in such a lifestyle, but it was no place for me to judge a woman of whom I had no personal knowledge whatsoever.

"Do you live alone in that church?" Alice asked.

"No. I live with my Papa and my child." I said.

I had no shame in the child. The child was a blessing from God from a terrible incident. The time I'd spent raising the infant had brought much healing to me in the past few months. This, however, seemed to come as a shock to my companion Alice. I couldn't blame her for her surprise. It was shocking. The congregation had been rocked, but understanding by the information. When taken in context – my baby was a something beautiful that came from some evil.

Still it hurt to think of the incident at times. I was still shocked by the way that even now the feeling of betrayal was as strong as it was. Even after over a year and I could still feel it as strongly as the very first moments I'd experienced it. However, the disgust was always tapered with a pity and affection that I couldn't explain and as much as I would have liked to place all of this blame on him – I knew that I could not do so in good conscious.

"I'm sure your child is beautiful." She said.

"He is, and he is healthy." I said. "God has blessed me."

Alice was quiet then, and so was I as we walked. The sun sunk lower and lower onto the horizon with every step we took, but I was not worried. I would be home before dark and before Papa would have found me missing. Then when he awoke from his nap or came down from his studies I would explain my errand. There was no doubt in my mind that he would understand when he knew the reason behind my disobedience.

We turned onto the main street leading back to Alice's address a few moments later. We had only gone a few feet before someone called out after us.

"Alice!" I heard a voice call and we both turned in the direction of the sound.

A lanky, dirty figure hurried over to us. Their cap was pulled down lower over their eyes. Their pants were too short, and worn thread bare. A pair of rag-tag suspenders pulled up over a set of narrow shoulders. The cut of the men's shirt the figure wore didn't hide the fact that they were female. With each long, powerful stride a thick braid waved out behind her from side to side.

My companion stiffened at the approach of the cross-dressed figure. I could sense her tension and instinctively my hand went to her arm for comfort. She was afraid, but not of the person coming towards us. The way her head swiveled from side to side, as if looking for someone, told me that there was more to this meeting than just the clandestine rendezvous of two parties.

The girl in boy clothes reached us a few moments after she had initially caught our attention and now I had a clearer look at her.

And I recognized her.

The tongue pushed into her cheek, the cold, mocking cat-like eyes, the high, blunt cheekbones, and the familiar smirking lips left no doubt in my mind as to who this was. Even though we'd only met once before I knew exactly who it was even before Alice identified her.

"Snaps. It isn't safe for you to be seen with me. I've been looking for you to tell you and Spot to not see me again." She said. Her eyes didn't settle on any one place. She kept searching the area around us, never stopping.

"I'm looking for my brother. The bastard disappeared again and I was wondering if you had seen him." Snaps said. She seemed to have no regard or use for Alice's warning. I cringed at her use of foul language.

Our eyes met.

"Holy shit." Snaps said and my cheeks felt red. "You're Mary."

I should have listened to Papa.

* * *

**A/N**: Much love to all you readers out there who have put up with me and my infrequent updates. I know I am a bad girl. Your continued support has kept me going!


	20. Darkness

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, the Lindharts, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.

**A/N**: Okay kids. I made my decision about the endings. At this point I am only going to publish one. Perhaps I will post an alternate ending at some other point, but currently I am not. I've decided to go with the depressing ending (surprise, surprise). Fair warning: This is where it gets heavy. There be no hope here from this point onward. So sit back, put on your big kid pants, and enjoy(?).

**Warning**: R (profanity, non-explicit sex, nonconsensual sex, adult themes)

**Chapter 20**: Darkness

* * *

I stayed in Manhattan for a few days to blow off steam and spend time with Jack. We managed to keep our relationship a secret to the newsboys in his borough, but I knew the second I went back to Brooklyn – Spot would know. It was like he could smell it on me when a boy had touched me and considering just how much touching Jack had done – it wouldn't be hard for him to pick up the scent. I relished the idea of Spot's rage at his discovery. I knew that things would, most certainly, change the moment he came to the truth. Jack had been right. This _would_ change things.

But not for a few days.

It was the fourth day that I decided to head back to Brooklyn. The anger that I had felt at Spot for his abuses to Ireland had faded to embers: still hot enough to burn, but not raging out of control like the fire inside me had been before. I needed some heat in my veins to just have the guts to go back when it could have been so comfortable to just stay with Jack. I'd be back in Manhattan probably before the day was out, but first I had business to do.

So I left.

I didn't tell Jack. Instead I left a message with that loud mouthed Racetrack. The last thing I needed was Jack's persuasive mouth on mine or his tempting tongue tracing the shell of my ear. I had little doubt that he wouldn't take advantage of all the little tricks he had learned to do to me to get me to stay a few more days.

It didn't take long for me to run into familiar faces once I entered into the Brooklyn territory. Thusly it wouldn't take long for rumors to abound about where I had been for the past three days. There were unspoken implications for an unannounced trip to Manhattan. Especially if you were me. If Spot's little birdies had done their job good and proper Spot would probably be pissed to all hell when I found him.

At one point I would have done my damnedest to keep those whispers from spreading since there was no substance to them. This time, however, I wanted those whispers to turn to shouts. If I figured it would have been beneficial I would have tattooed: "I fucked Jack Kelly every way from Tuesday" on my forehead, but the only thing a newsie loved more than a good headline was juicy gossip. A few well phrased words upon well placed ears worked better than a banner.

There are certain people in the world that you can count on to never keep a secret. Marbles was one of those people. When I came into his selling territory I knew I would come face to face with just who I needed to see.

It didn't take long before I saw him. He was one of the older boys, dark hair, sun darkened skin, and an inability to keep anything to himself. Due to his age, he was also closer to the rings that would reach Spot's ears first. I liked the idea of my scandal going ahead of me like a herald to court. The Spot of old would have sent scouts to Manhattan to see if I was there, but there was a chance he hadn't even noticed I was gone. Our confrontation would be so much sweeter if he had time to consider ever implication.

Marbles eyes met mine through the maze of passing people. Poor kid looked surprised, almost spooked, to see me approaching. It wasn't without good reason. Marbles had been on the wrong end of my bad temper before. We'd been on rough terms ever since. Or really, I hadn't spoken a single word to him since and he'd never come closer than ten feet to me. That was about to change.

"Hey Marbles." I said.

"Hey Snaps." He looked around in the crowd. His face said he expected an ambush.

"Have you seen Spotty around?" I keep it casual like we'd never fought a second in our lives. "I've been in Manhattan the past few days and I need to talk to him." And there it was, just at the mention of Manhattan, Marbles' eyes flashed with interest.

"He's been spending a lot of time at the docks lately." Marbles said. He gave me a strangely calculating glance from head to toe and then up again. I could tell he was weighing his words. "How's Manhattan hanging?" It was the perfect example of asking one thing while implying several more.

"Manhattan's hanging great." My smirk fixed firmly in its place. "Never better. Jack's just a great leader, you know?" I pressed my tongue into my cheek and returned his not-so-subtle glance-over. "I'll see you, Marbles." I turned and sauntered away.

Now I just had to wait.

* * *

It was another scorching day. Spot had been selling all day. All of his copies of both editions had moved without any more effort than usual, but the heat had drained him. Even his hair felt hot. The key around his neck felt like it was burning him. His brain felt addled and out of sorts from the sun beating down on him all day. Fog mired his thoughts. Dirt stuck to his clothes and body. His hair lay flat and plastered to his head from sweat and from his hat.

He needed a bath.

He went to the docks. It took him little time to strip down to his barest of necessities and jump into the water. The coly salty water engulfed him. His body screamed at the change in temperatures. He allowed the murky water to wash over him for a moment longer than he normally would before surfacing. He popped his head above the water with a loud gasp and shook his unruly mane with exhilaration.

He needed this.

He could literally feel the grim of the city melting off of his body. He ducked under the water and furiously rubbed his hands through his hair and over his body. He surfaced, body cooling, mind clearing. For a few moments he treaded water, watching the boys jump off the dock and splash each other from a distance, and just enjoyed the cool relief. Then he swam to a rope hanging off the end and climbed out deftly.

The sun warmed the wood of the docks to the point that it nearly burned the bottoms of his feet. He made his way over to his pile of belongings and donned his garments quickly. Some of his boys greeted him as he passed them by, and a few attractive girls as well, but he paid them little attention. He was going to see Mary.

By the time he made it back to the lodging house, he had dried off entirely and begun to sweat anew, and his mind felt fuzzy. Inside the building was just as hot as outside. He felt like the whole heat of the sun was trapped in his body. Immediately he went to the wash room.

There were few other newsies in the building at this time. Most wouldn't come in till after sunset. It would be a few hours. He took advantage of this time to strip down and give himself a proper bath and clean his clothes. The water at the pier had served its purpose, but this was necessary. Besides, he wanted to visit Mary, and he was in no state of cleanliness to do that.

The washroom was empty. He filled a tub from the pump and noted that the normally cool water was lukewarm. After he filled the tub, he filled a second smaller one beside it and stripped. All of his clothes went into the smaller bucket and then he into the tub. He furiously scrubbed his body with lye soap, getting off the thick layers of grit and grim that dirtied his skin.

One by one he pulled the garments out of the soak bucket and into the tub with himself and rubbed the lye soap on them before replacing them in the small bucket. Once they were all properly soaped he twirled the around until he was satisfied that they were clean. He made quick work to rinse them as well as he knew how and hang the tattered garments on pegs where towels hung.

He stood, grabbed a towel, and tied it around his waist. After disposing of the dirty water he went back into the bunk room. He retrieved and shimmied his extra pants up over his slim hips and attached his faded red suspenders before sliding them up over his shoulders. He didn't want to wear his nice shirt, which was his only other option besides his one drying in the washroom, since he supposed that he would only soil it on a day as hot as this one. Besides, clothes on a day like today were a mockery.

He headed back up the stairs, past the washroom, and up the narrow steps to the attic hatch. Barefooted and bare-chested, he pushed at the hatch from below quietly and crept up the remaining stairs. Just as quietly he shut the door to Mary's temporary dwelling place. Mary had been here for one week and he didn't need to mess things up by being in a hurry.

The attic had become her sanctuary. Spot had stolen few things for her in the first few days she had been here and told her he'd bought them. Some ink, a pen and paper, a few books, and a few other essentials to comfort of the girl. Mary had found some spare clothes in one of the chests and made use of them. Spot sneaked a bowl and basin up from the lodging house's kitchen and a towel from the bathroom so she could wash her face. An old forgotten rocking chair had found its way out from under a sheet and over by the window behind her wall.

Quietly, Spot padded through the maze of boxes, old furniture, and other odds and ends to her corner of the attic. He heard her humming a soft melody to herself as he got closer though he could not yet see her. It appeared that she hadn't heard him enter or noticed his approach either. It was possible since he wasn't wearing shoes and he had carefully avoided the squeaking boards to avoid detection from below.

He rounded the corner into her improvised room and found her sitting on her bed with her back facing him. She was wearing, what appeared to be, only her under shift. No doubt it was to avoid the heat that was so oppressive. The cream colored fabric fluttered around her body gently, free from any restrictive corset and other clothing.

The shape of her body came second to Spot's attentions however because Mary was brushing her hair.

Her exposed form intrigued him, but the illicit sight of her tresses triggered something warm in his belly. Her brown locks glistened and waved in the sunlight. Streaks of auburn flashed fire in its dark color. It slipped and shifted along her back when she moved, pooling around her where she sat. It was stunning. She gathered a handful over one shoulder and stroked it with the brush Spot had stolen. She was completely lost in her own little world, humming to herself, and Spot wanted nothing more than to get lost in that world with her.

She was the most breathtaking thing he'd ever seen. Spot couldn't think. He couldn't move. Heat unrelated to the weather rose in his body and he did nothing to stop it. Instead he stood, watched, and simmered.

Oh how he wanted to touch her hair.

He wanted to sink his fingers deep into those waves and see if they were as soft as they looked. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and get tangled in it. He wanted to see what it looked like against her skin.

Hunger grew inside of him with every passing second. It was a familiar pain ravenously clawing at his insides. He'd felt it before with others, but not like this, never like this. Not this blinding, all-consuming heat. The kind of heat that buried in your skin and boiled your blood until you could scream. The kind of heat that branded you from the inside out. The kind of heat that men killed for. It crept up through his stomach, to his chest, neck, face and he hadn't even touched her. Yet.

Mary tossed her hair back over her shoulder, finished with her task, so that it cascaded down her back to her hips. She sighed and stood.

Then she turned.

Their eyes made contact instantly and she froze at the sight of him. For one stuttered heartbeat they simply looked at each other, wide brown eye staring into cool blue ones. Then she was a blur of motion. She grabbed at the sheet on her bed to cover herself with one hand and pulled her hair back with the other, embarrassment turning her bright red.

Spot moved just as quickly. He hurried over to where she now stood in search of some sort of modesty and grabbed her biceps. Easily, he turned her to face him, and like that first time in the alley behind the rectory, he bent and kissed her with no preamble or warning.

She froze at his touch. He wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her as close to his body as he could. The softness of her curves crushed and filled in every angle and edge on his lean body and it still wasn't close enough. His other hand came behind her head and tangled in as much hair as he possibly could. The fine tresses caught and tugged on the rough patches and calluses of his hand. He drowned in the feel of her hair, in her.

His hungry lips took what he wanted. The girl turned her face away with a gasp. His lips branded her cheek in hot pursuit. The heel of his hand pressed against the side of her throat. He could feel her pulse racing there. He could see the flush of her skin and hear her shallow breathing. She wanted this as much as he did even if she didn't understand what it was.

"This isn't appropriate." She breathed in a moment of rational thought.

"Doesn't matter. You're so beautiful, Mary." He kissed the shell of her ear and felt her shudder against him.

Again he kissed her mouth. He gave her no time to protest, to think, to breathe. He kissed her like he'd die if he didn't, and the ever tightening spiral in his chest told him he might. He'd held women before, kissed them, wanted them, but it never felt like this. It never felt so absolutely necessary. Her small hands came up to his bare chest and pushed futilely. All he felt was the pressure of her touch and it knocked him senseless.

She struggled against him, but he was too strong. He held her to him like a vice. Every muscle in his body strained to be closer to her. He was blind to everything but his desire for her. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. His skin felt so hot that it seemed like it should peel off. Everything within him was burning. He was a man on fire and he burned and burned and burned.

He _knew_ she loved him and _dammit_ he _loved_ her. He loved her so much it ate him alive from the inside out. He hated how much he loved her. He hated how much he wanted this. All he was doing now was loving her. Why was she so difficult when all he wanted to do was show her how he loved her? To hold her? To touch her? He had to show her. He had to make her understand. This was love. This was his love for her. There were no thoughts about the bet. Nothing entered his mind about how this could be the defining moment of victory. He just felt. He just wanted. He just was.

He wasn't gentle. He couldn't be. Every part of his existence depended on this. Blood thrummed through his veins. His pulse pounded maddeningly in his ears. Any words that she might have said went unheard as he was deafened by the sound of his own heart beating.

She stopped struggling and simply lay there trembling. His face buried itself in her neck and he breathed in the scent of her. It was intoxicating. His head was swimming, absolutely drowning in her. When it was done, he rolled off of her.

Her cream colored shift was bunched up above her belly. The hair that occupied so many of his thoughts in the last two months lay tangled and rumpled on the rough wool blanket beneath her. Tears streaked her face and there was a tangy smell of blood in the air. Shaking hands moved to pull down her garment to protect any last vestige of modesty that she might have possessed.

She didn't look at him. She rolled over and sat on the edge of her bed, her back facing him. Her shoulder shook silently. He wanted to touch her, but he froze. She was crying. She was crying because of him. Nausea overwhelmed him. What had he done?

Quickly he dressed. His lack of shirt embarrassed him now. She stood, arms wrapped firmly around her stomach, and walk painfully away from him. He wanted her to look at him, to say this was fine, to say that she loved him, but he knew that wouldn't happen.

He didn't know what to do. He couldn't go. He couldn't stay. Every second that ticked by was another second that the weight of this decision began to sink in. It pounded into his system with every beat of his heart like a hammer to a nail.

He took everything from her. He used her, and why? To make her understand his love? To make himself understand his love? She spoke of her God and that He was love. Her God that didn't allow consummation until after marriage and he hadn't understood that.

He thought he knew what love was. Now he knew he didn't. He thought he could show her. He thought he could make her understand his love and it all it could be. He thought he could fill this aching hole in his chest he felt all of the time. He thought he loved her enough for this to be okay.

Love made him a monster. Love made him everything that he hated.

"Mary…" Her head dropped at the sound of his voice. "I'm sorry." He took a step and saw her tremble at the sound of his footstep but he still approached.

She was afraid of him.

She had every right to be. Her slim shoulder shook with silent tears. She was crying because of him. It was a slap to the face with a sledgehammer. He reached out to touch her shoulder. She flinched away sharply with a strangled sound in the back of her throat that tore at him worse than any knife. She wouldn't even _look_ at him.

The blood pounded in his ears again but for an entirely different reason.

She swayed, rocking herself like a child. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and console her, but he knew his touch would only make things worse. He couldn't touch her but he couldn't keep himself from wanting to touch her. She was right in front of him but she was lifetimes away. Every second brought a new thought, a new plan, and a new revelation. Every second brought a new curse, a new damnation, and a new sense of loathing.

Then, so softly he almost missed it, she spoke: "Please leave - go."

She didn't lift her head or meet his gaze. She simply said the words on a choked breath.

"Mary…" He was cut off by her shaking her head roughly.

"Go."

"Don't…"

"Go."

"I'm sorry."

All she gave him was a ragged breath.

"I love you." He said. It is a final attempt, a desperate plea, and he couldn't mean it more.

At his words she lets out a heart wrenching sob. Her tiny body shook so hard it looked like she could come apart at the seams and it was entirely his fault. Every word he said, every touch he tried just hurt her more.

Nausea seized him. The room swam. His need for her crystalized to a sharp piercing pain right in the middle of his chest, crushing is lungs, taking his breath. He needed to get out of there. He couldn't watch her crumble to pieces and do nothing. He couldn't smell what he had done to her lingering around him sticking to his skin and sinking into his bones. He couldn't any of it back any more than he could stop loving her.

He turned and ran from the attic, down the stairs, and out the door. He ran and ran and ran. The hot cobblestones and dirt cut at his feet. The hot sun and wind beat against his skin. People yelled, women giggled and shrieked at his state of undress, men bellowed after him to watch where he was going, but he didn't care. He couldn't care, so he kept on. He ran until he didn't know the streets anymore. He ran until his feet came to a sudden and unceremonious halt on a deserted back street.

Vertigo overtook him and he staggered under the weight of it. Bile rose in his throat and he didn't stop it. The King of Brooklyn bent over, hands on knees, and wretched violently. Every last ounce of contents in his stomach blazed up his throat, and out of his mouth and nose. His eyes burned, his abdominals aches, and his throat was raw by the time he was done. Every fiber of his being shook. He took a few stumbling steps backwards before his legs gave out. He fell to his knees with a sickening crack.

_Everything_ hurt. Nothing made sense. The world spun around him making him sick once again, but there was nothing left to give. Dry heave after dry heave, he felt his body trying to purge itself of the disgust he felt seeping through him like a poison. He crawled over to the brick edifice of the building he was nearest to and leant his back against it. It was warm in the heat of the day, but he didn't notice. All he was aware of was the horrible memory playing again and again in his mind like an endless cycle of the most cruel torture.

All he knew was questions.

Was this who he truly was – a man who took women without care for their wellbeing? Was this how he treated those whom he loved – with blind selfishness? Was he truly someone who would play against any odds to win a bet? Was he any different than those men who had come to his mother and used her blindly? How different was he than those predators that stalked upon innocents on the streets? How could he ever enter those church walls again knowing what he had done? How could he ever face her again? How could he face her father, or Henry or Martha? How could he go back to the lodging house and see her now?

Oh no. The lodging house. She was still there. He had to go to her. No. He had to stay where he was. No – he had to go. He had to go. He had to take care of her. He had to make this right. He had to make her see how sorry he was. He had to make her forgive him.

He stood. Every fiber of him trembled. It took him a moment to find his feet, but once he did, he ran.

The sun was lower in the sky. It didn't even cross his mind that he missed his chance at the evening edition. He didn't care. He just needed to get back. He needed to get her back. He ignored the pain in his legs and lungs. He pushed against the darkness he saw creeping in on the sides of his eyes. He wouldn't stop.

He entered the lodging house like a tsunami. The irrepressible heat and the evening edition had kept the lodging house scarcely populated which was fortunate considering he had no time for stealth.

The stairs were a daunting task, but he scaled them with feet made of lead. Up to the second floor bunk room, and then further on to the washroom. His body revolted. He swayed. His breaths came in hard gasps. In front of him the final set of stairs loomed like a taunting mountain.

He reached out to lean on the doorjamb for support, but missed. He staggered off the landing into the empty washroom. His body felt too heavy for his legs. His head felt too large for his neck and he stumbled over to a wash pedestal. He leaned against it for support and looked around the dizzy room. His eyes caught sight of a damning article. His shirt still hung to dry from earlier, exactly where he'd left it just moments before – it. Naming it hurt too much.

He tried to move again. The world spun, his knees buckled, and he slumped to the ground in a heap. The heat and physical exertion had him ruined. His head swam and he felt the need to vomit again, but he choked it down as well as he could.

He wanted to see Mary.

He wanted to die.

Not necessarily in that order, but his body ignored his command to get up off the floor, so the later may come first.

The floorboards were relatively cool. His heat rattled brain phased through thought as he lay face down upon the dirty floor. Two repeated ideas circulated in his brain in a deadly course. One thought said that he was in love with Mary. This in and of itself was a frightening proposition. The second thought was that he forced himself upon Mary and taken something that hadn't been his to take, regardless of his feelings and the bet. He'd become absolutely everything he'd ever despised in men, who like his unknown father, had taken his pleasure from his mother and left.

He didn't have the strength make reason from the thoughts or to keep them from washing over upon him again and again like waves upon the shore. So he didn't fight. He simply drowned.

There he lay on the washroom floor, immobile and miserable, for uncountable seconds. His whole body felt like an oven. Why was he still so hot? He heard a pair of footsteps mount the stairs to the washroom and knew that he had to get up. He knew that he had to move. He knew how bad it would look if he were found prone and helpless, but he just couldn't move. He absolutely could not move and he didn't care. He wanted to die. He just wanted to die.

Voices accompanied the footsteps. They were quiet, not for the sake of secrecy for they had no knowledge of his presence, but because they were female. He couldn't make out who it was, but he didn't try too hard.

On the edge of discovery a faint flicker of pride ignited deep within. It was barely anything, but it was enough. He wouldn't be able to go far, but he could try. Valiantly – Spot forced himself up to kneel. His arms shook as he pushed himself up. He squeezed his eyes shut against the irrepressible vertigo in attempts to keep himself from being sick again.

I didn't work.

He dry heave and gagged on the nothingness. His head throbbed, his body shook, and darkness closed in around the edges of his eyes as he teetered forward to his hands and knees. He'd never been sun sick like this. He had learned long ago to be mindful of the sun's powers, but the day's events stripped him of pre-learned preservation. It was his own damn fault. He knew better. He knew better than to run for miles without water in hundred degree weather, but he did it anyway. So now between the physical weakness and the emotional burden, he couldn't present himself as the indomitable Brooklyn leader.

He wished himself invisible.

It didn't work.

Spot breathed in deeply. There was no avoiding it now. He had never felt so violently miserable in his whole life and that was how they found him.

Ireland and Snaps stopped dead in their tracks in the door to the washroom. There, on his hands and knees like an animal, was Spot Conlon. He was shirtless, the bottom of his bare feet inexplicably cut and bloodied, and his whole frame shaking like a leaf in the wind. Dark head bowed, sucking air in with rattling gulps, and apparently absolutely no strength to pull himself fully upright – there was Spot Conlon.

"Holy shit." Snaps said like a prayer.

"Spot?" Ireland asked.

The words fell from the thick air like a signal and they moved quickly to his sides. Spot felt strong, work rough hands grip his arms and try to bring him to sit back on his knees. He didn't resist, but he didn't help either and he swayed in their grip. He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyelids shut to fight against the nausea.

"What the hell, Spot?" He recognized Snaps' voice, but it wasn't angry. She was distressed.

"Do you think he got in a fight?" Ireland asked.

"Spot. What are you doing?" Snaps again, ignoring Ireland's question entirely.

Spot opened his eyes to try to see the two girls, but the world blurred in front of his eyes and he heaved heavily to one side.

"Dammit!" Snap swore. "Let's get him up against a wall."

They unceremonious and somewhat clumsily hoisted and dragged the Brooklyn leader from the center of the washroom to the far wall. Snaps swore steadily under her breath through the whole process.

"Look at his stomach." Ireland said once they finally got him leaning with his back against the brick wall.

Spot cracked open his eyes to try to see his stomach. He had a hard time focusing, but even in the blurred haze in front of his eyes he could see of what she meant. His entire torso was splotched with patches of a creeping red rash. Again he closed his eyes and groaned.

This caught the girls' attention.

"Spot!" Snaps said."What the hell happened to you?"

"He got too hot." Ireland said. Her hand reached out to touch his forehead. "He's burning up." This wasn't the first time any of them had seen a case of sun poisoning.

"We need ice." Snaps said. "Go to Cooper's. He'll cut you off a chunk for a nickel."

Spot heard Ireland's footsteps hurry from the room and down the stairs. Snaps heaved a heavy sigh.

"Dammit Spot. Why'd you go and do something so stupid?" She sat back against the wall next to him and he turned his head to the side and peered through kaleidoscope eyes at her.

"Snaps." He said, but he hardly recognized his own voice. "Mary is upstairs."

Somewhere, somehow he hoped she would understand absolutely everything that had transpired from those three words although that was impossible.

"Mary doesn't live here." Snaps said. She thought it was the heat talking.

"Mary is upstairs." Spot repeated. He needed her to understand. "The attic. Go get her." Each word demanded more effort than he ever remembered words taking.

He expected her to argue again, but she didn't. She looked at his skeptically, her cat eyes squinted into slits. Then he watched the two of her stand and saunter over to the washroom door. He heard her climb the stairs and swear as she tried to open the hatch. Mary must have put someone on top of it after he left to keep him out. The thought tore at him, but he couldn't blame her. Who would? He deserved to be kept out.

He hoped Mary would come down and _see_ how sorry he was. She had to know. She had to forgive him. Wasn't that something that her God commanded along with all of his other impossible demands like abstinence until marriage? She had to forgive him. She had to. She had to. She had to tell him in her plain way that things would be fine and that they could just go back to the way things were. If she didn't he didn't know what he would do. Losing his mind was on the top of the list of possibilities.

What was taking so long? Why wasn't Snaps back yet? Desperation welled within him at the thought of not seeing her. He _had_ to see her. Nothing had been more vital in his life. If she wasn't going to come to him then he would go to her.

The earth spun one thousand times a minute as he tried to slide himself up the wall to stand. Splinters of light and dark exploded in his vision and all of his muscles were alight with a cruel, tightening fire. He felt weaker than he'd ever felt in his life. With a deep breath, he pushed off of the wall with what little strength he could muster.

He made it three steps before he crashed into a wash pedestal. The force of his weight stumbling knocked the cheap glass wash pitcher to the ground with a thunderous crash. The impact successfully knocked the wind out of the staggering Brooklyn leader. He crumpled to his knees. The terrible sinking feeling in his gut outweighed the shards of glass cutting into his tender flesh. This was what it was like to fail.

He heard steps descending from the attic, but only one pair of feet, and heavily shod ones at that. The sinking feeling plummeted to rock bottom as he watched only one girl appear in his swimming vision. Snaps alone rejoined him in the washroom.

"There's no one up there, Spot." Snaps said from the doorway. "If Mary was up there – she's gone."

Those words were all it took. He started to cry.

* * *

He wasn't at the docks, or his normal selling territory, or the Lodging House. By the time I'd circled through those locations three times I was out of patience. My thoughts went towards The Scrape. If he had gone there to drink – he would be worthless to me until he sobered up. He wouldn't give a shit if I'd slept with every newsie big enough to get a hard on in that Manhattan borough if that were the case.

The only other place I could think to look was Alice's apartment.

If I found him there I knew the chances of him being happy about my presence there would be slim to none. That was exactly what I wanted. I needed something, anything, to jump him out of his apathetic state. Interrupting him in the middle of seduction on top of the revelation of my own encounters should do the trick nicely. So with that in mind and the sun sinking low in the afternoon sky I set my path towards Alice's apartments.

My mind played over possible reactions Spot might have if he was at Alice's upon my arrival. Each of them ending with us having it out, most of them ending with me winning, all of them involved a fist-fight. Just the proposition of it in my mind got my body humming with the possibility. My stride quickened with my pulse as my brain sorted through all of the contingencies. Nothing my mind's eye had seen, however, could have prepared me for what actually would happen.

I was on the street where Alice lived, moving quickly, when out of an alleyway about fifty feet ahead of me, stepped Alice with another girl. Alice was easy enough to recognize. The girl that accompanied her was plainly dressed, her young profile uncreased, her hair covered with a simple white cap. The only thing this other woman meant to me was that Alice was not with my stupid ass half-brother.

"Alice!" I called across the space and two sets of eyes were on me instantly.

I walked over to them, watching Alice's reaction to my approach. Upon recognition, she appeared frightened. Quickly she looked around as if searching for someone. Spot? I hoped.

"Snaps." She said. "Snaps. It isn't safe for you to be seen with me. I've been looking for you to tell you and Spot to not see me again."

This girl had no idea what it meant to not be safe. I wasn't worried at her warning.

"I'm looking for my brother. The bastard disappeared again and I was wondering if you had seen him." I said and turned a glance to her smaller, quiet companion.

Our eyes met.

In that instant I was transported to the streets over a year ago, watching a street preacher surrounded by followers with my Spot by my side. I remembered a challenge and acceptance. I remembered the months that followed of merciless jabs and condescension towards Spot and his apparently hopeless endeavor. I remembered going to the attic of the Lodging House while my heat sickened half-brother was unable to stand on his own and finding this girl, wide-eyed and terrified, standing by an open window.

I remembered Mary.

* * *

Snaps sprung up the stairs with a catlike stealth – her feet propelled by curiosity. Spot said Mary was up here. Right. Like she believed that. But if it would just get him to calm down she would go check. It had been awhile since she'd been in the attic anyway.

She reached the top of the stars quickly. Her hands automatically reached to push open the hatch that kept her from entering. It was stuck. She swore and tried again. This time she felt it give and heard something slide to the side. Someone had put something on top of the hatch. In order for that to happen someone had to be in the attic. Could it…?

The hatch opened with one more solid push and Snaps climbed up. It was hot and dusty in the space. She walked stealthily around the miscellaneous crates and sheet covered furniture. Snaps moved cautiously without the intention of doing so. She had nothing to fear up here, especially if it was inhabited only by a church mouse, but her steps were still surreptitious

There was a whole sense of uneasiness in regards to the situation. Snaps felt in her gut that there was more to this than she wanted to accept. She knew Spot. Spot would have to have a reason to hide Mary in the attic. It was a risky move and would have required a premiere level of stealth on both their parts. Beyond that he wouldn't have simply given her access to Mary because he was a little worse from the sun.

This was a bet. Up until now Snaps had played nice and left Mary and Spot to play out their dance without any interference. This, as Spot was probably well aware, could change at any instant; especially if the circumstances of the wager changed substantially. A change such as Mary practically cohabitating with her brother would certainly count as substantial and give Snaps every reason to begin a more aggressive tactic.

Why would he give her that chance? Something didn't add up. Something had Spot frantic enough to give himself heatstroke. Something made him desperate and Spot was rarely desperate. It set Snaps on edge.

She came around strange mound of boxes and she saw her.

There by the window leading to the fire escape stood a girl whose wide brown eyes looked older than the rest of her young face. In small hands she had clenched a small sack with what Snaps assumed to be personal belongings. She looked like she was about to faint, but maybe not from the heat. Snaps froze where she stood, about twenty feet from the girl, hoping that the wide berth would ease her fear.

"Spot sent me." Snaps broke the ice because it looked like the girl was about to throw herself out the window.

"Who are you? Where's Spot?" Mary spoke.

"Name's Snaps. He's downstairs. In the wash room. He sent me up here." Snaps spoke slowly, in fragments, as if speaking to the immigrants on the wharf. "What the hell are you doing up here anyway?"

"I'm sorry." There was a catch in her voice and an apology that Snaps didn't understand. Apologies were not answers. "I'm not staying. I just –," Her hesitation is paired with an inexplicable shockwave of emotion across her face. "I thought he may come up here again before I left."

"The heat got ta Spot." Snaps slacked her hip. "He ain't going anywhere for awhile. That still don't tell me why you are up here." Calculating eyes had already noted the neatly made bed, the pitcher and bowl and curious arrangement of boxes around it as well as the canvas clutch Mary clung to desperately. It was clear she had been up here for a time, but the question of why hadn't been answered.

"My brother and sister have the measles. Spot allowed me to stay until it was no longer necessary." This girl couldn't lie if she wanted to.

"He wants to see you." Snaps said and watched as fear crept onto the shadows of her face "Come on and I'll show you where he is."

"No. I can't go. I'm sorry." Mary said and the answer caught Snaps off guard.

"I didn't ask you. I told you." Snaps did nothing to keep the irritation out of her voice. No one said 'no' to Brooklyn – especially some freeloading church mouse.

"I cannot. Please understand. I'm not attempting to be difficult." She remained resolute even under Snaps insistence. This was something that Snaps rarely encountered.

"Look girlie, the guy ain't asking you to marry him. He just wants to see you." Snaps' voice was razor sharp. "Now play nice and come on." She made a sharp gesture towards the hatch with her chin and took a step forward.

Mary's face went to ash at Snaps' advance, but she straightened purposefully in spite of it. Even pulled up to her full height she was no where near Snaps gawky frame.

"I'm sorry, but I won't." Her resolve didn't shake but her voice did.

It wasn't a challenge. Despite Mary's blatant defiance it was clear she wasn't looking for a fight. Still Snaps set her jaw in determination. She hadn't known what to expect when she came up to this attic, but this definitely not even on the list of possibilities. The idea of dragging Mary down the stairs by that bun on the back of her head more than just crossed Snaps' mind. Just as she took another step forward there was a crash from below, a thud, and a low cry.

What in the hell?

Had someone just attacked Spot in the washroom? Snaps knew he had enemies, but none so violent, or so stupid, within the borough to pull a stunt like this. Did he? For a moment she turned back towards the hatch and then turned back again to see Mary climbing out the open window onto the fire escape. Snaps instantly felt torn by the immediate duty to her brother but also his blurred request to bring Mary to him. Snaps' eyes met Mary's across the space. A disquieting depth lay behind the church girl's brown orbs as she spoke.

"Go to him." It wasn't an order even though it sounded like a command. It was a permission, a blessing, a pardon. "I'm truly sorry I can't stay." Her tone was sincerely apologetic.

"Just stay here." Snaps already moved back from whence she came. The girl wasn't worth the trouble. Spot could go visit her later.

"There's a letter on the bed for Spot. Could you see that he gets it?" Mary said. Snaps looked back in time to see her gesture to the neatly made bed hidden by the odd box wall.

"I'll give it to him if you stay here." Snaps said as she snatched the paper and stuffed it in her pocket on her way towards the hatch. There was no response, and when she looked back to the window she saw Mary was nowhere in sight.

"Dammit." She swore under her breath. She shook her head to clear it of the strangeness that she had just encountered in the attic and hurried down the stairs to see what the noise had been about.

When she made it to the washroom, there was Spot, on his knees clutching to the edge of a wooden washstand. Cheap glass was scattered on the ground around him. It didn't take a detective to deduce what had happened. He looked up at her from his pathetic position, eyes heavy lidded but expectant.

"There's no one up there, Spot." Snaps said. "Mary is gone."

Then she saw something happen that she hadn't seen since their mother had died.

Spot started crying.

* * *

It was like time stopped for a moment and I was back in that attic. The whole conversation played in my head like it had just happened. She looked at me now with that some bottomless depth that had struck me over a year ago.

"Holy shit." I felt like I'd been punched in the gut as I watched her cheeks redden. "You're Mary."

Spot was never going to believe me.

Holy shit

* * *

**A/N**: This is the way the world ends. About two more chapters left. All of our paths are converging. We'll just have to see how it goes. Brace yourselves.


End file.
